by Karen Miller
The rest of the Senators, from those worlds as yet unaffected, tried to pretend that none of this was happening—and complained that the new security procedures were cramping their style.
I’ve a good mind to leave them to their whining and fly home to Breha.
But of course he couldn’t do that. What would become of the Republic if every Senator gave up when the going got tough? Padmé wasn’t giving up. She railed right back at them, waved her fist in their faces, scolded them for laziness, called them to account. And they listened. How could they ignore her? She was the child-Queen who’d faced down the Trade Federation and won. She was the Senator who’d defied assassins to speak out for peace. She’d fought on Geonosis alongside the Jedi.
And she was a close personal friend of Supreme Chancellor Palpatine.
So, however reluctantly, they listened to Padmé… and, however imperfectly, some things got done.
Morose, disconsolate, he turned away from the window and crossed to the wine cabinet. Peace, and a generous helping of fiery Corellian brandy. Then, perhaps, he could start to relax.
Glass in hand, brandy-warmth lingering, he set the bottle on a side table and sank into his favorite chair. He wanted to call Breha, to lose himself in her soft voice and heal his hurts with her smile. But it was midmorning on Alderaan and she’d be in the Legislate, taking care of their people. Without her, he could never have remained on Coruscant. The welfare of Alderaan was cradled in her hands.
And the welfare of the Republic is cradled in mine.
Well. Not only his… although on days like this one it seemed like it. How did Palpatine stand it? How could he bear the desperate hunger of all those planets looking to him for their salvation? A lesser man would have broken long before now. But Palpatine withstood the pressure. In a strange way he seemed almost to thrive on it, as though being needed gave him the strength to go on. The man was remarkable.
I don’t know where we’d be without him.
He poured himself more brandy. Sipping slowly, he stared again at the unsleeping city. He should eat something. He hadn’t eaten for hours, and brandy on an empty stomach was a recipe for disaster. But he was too tired to move. He let his eyes drift closed… he fell gently into sleep…
…and then startled awake, heart pounding, as the comlink in his tunic’s inner pocket, the comlink not even Breha knew about, erupted into insistent beeping.
Chapter Ten
The room smelled of brandy: the glass had slipped from his oblivious fingers and spilled its contents on the carpet. Beyond the apartment window, the sky’s darkness had given way to first light; the impudent splendor of Coruscant’s brash night fading to its discreet daytime face.
With a shaking hand he retrieved the beeping comlink and acknowledged receipt of the communication. The beeping stopped. His apartment fell silent. So silent he could hear his hard-beating heart. Sweat prickled his skin. His breathing felt ragged. A spike of pain between his eyes woke to stabbing life.
He took the comlink into his bedroom and connected it to the small datareader he kept in his bedside odds-and-ends drawer. It was an old Alderaanian unit, battered and outmoded. Not worth a second look. At least, that was how it appeared on the outside. Inside it had been remade. Upgraded to an unmatched sophistication. A series of apparently random characters came up on the data-reader’s screen. Decoding them was a manual task. He’d committed the decryption algorithm to memory years ago.
It was part of the arrangement.
The process of downloading a message from the comlink to the datareader triggered an automatic comwipe. No record of the incoming message remained. The same protection was built into the datareader. He had precisely five minutes to decode the downloaded transmission. After that it also was wiped.
That was part of the arrangement, too.
Because this was too important to get wrong, he jotted down the message’s random symbols onto old-fashioned flimsiplast with an old-fashioned pen. Probably his contact would be horrified to learn that, but he or she never would, and it couldn’t be helped. He wasn’t prepared to make a mistake. Besides, flimsi could be burned, his scribbling lost forever to prying eyes.
Once the message was decoded, he stared at it. Was this right? Could it be right? Secrecy was his mysterious benefactor’s watchword. Paranoia their religion. They could be wrong, couldn’t they? And surely the Jedi would know of this, surely—
Don’t try second-guessing them now. Either you trust them or you don’t.
He activated his house droid. “There’s brandy spilled in the living room. Clean it up, and then I want breakfast.”
“Yes, sir,” said the droid, and withdrew.
Next he placed a call to Padmé’s apartment.
“I’m sorry, sir,” said her officious protocol droid. It actually sounded offended. It even looked offended. How was that possible? “I’m afraid my mistress has not yet arisen. Perhaps you’d care to call back at a more reasonable—”
The kriffing thing was arguing with him? “Perhaps you didn’t quite catch my name,” he said, letting his temper loose, just a little. “This is Senator Bail Organa and my business can’t wait.”
As the protocol droid dithered, a familiar voice spoke in the background. “Threepio? What’s going on?”
The droid turned. “Oh, Mistress Padmé, I am so sorry. I was just trying to explain to Senator Organa that you were—”
“Bail?” said Padmé, appearing on the viewscreen, pushing the droid aside. “What is it? What’s happened?”
She’d had as little sleep as he, probably, but it was impossible to tell. Padmé’s stamina appeared to be inexhaustible. “Sorry to call so early, Senator, but I’ve got a full day of meetings lined up and I needed to run some of my tactical analyses past you. Can we meet in, say, half an hour? I’ll come to you.”
She didn’t answer immediately. Questions burned in her eyes… but she didn’t ask them. Amazing woman. “To me? Yes,” she said at last. “Of course.” She sounded quite relaxed, but he could see the tension in her. He had no doubt she saw it in him, too. “Half an hour.”
Relief flooded through him as the vidlink disconnected. He reread the decoded message three more times, made certain it was accurately committed to memory, then burned it and washed the ashes down the kitchen sink. After that he showered, changed, bolted down his breakfast, and departed for Padmé’s residence.
Half an hour didn’t leave much time for eating or dressing, but Bail wouldn’t have called so early if the matter weren’t urgent. Ignoring fussing and fidgeting 3PO, Padmé rushed through her morning toilette, hastily swallowed the scrambled eggs the droid handed her, then stood on her apartment’s docking platform and waited for her unexpected visitor.
Something’s scared him. Something big.
Which hardly left her feeling sanguine. Bail Organa was a courageous, capable man. If he was unsettled—and he was unsettled, she’d seen the turmoil in his eyes—then it could only mean more trouble for Coruscant. Or for somewhere else in the Republic.
As if we don’t have trouble enough.
Still. The call hadn’t been about Anakin. Nothing terrible had happened to her husband, and that meant she could face with equanimity any news Bail brought, no matter how dire. There could be no greater disaster than disaster befalling Anakin.
She hadn’t heard from him, of course. And there’d been nothing, not even a whisper of a suggestion of a rumor, on either the HoloNet or from any Senatorial staffer, about conflict in or near the Bothan system. If there had been, she would have heard it.
They say no news is good news. I say no news is agony, but surely Obi-Wan would tell me if something had gone wrong.
She thought he would, even though they didn’t move in the same circles. Even though they were to all intents and purposes estranged—while being at the same time inextricably tied.
“Forgive me,” Bail said upon his arrival. “I didn’t know where else to turn.”
As always, he
presented an immaculate face to the world. Perfectly groomed, conservatively attired, elegance personified. But they’d worked together for a good while now, and she could see beneath his polished surface. She hadn’t been mistaken about him during their brief vidcom conversation: he was alarmed.
She tried to reassure him with a smile. “There’s nothing to forgive, Bail. And whatever’s wrong, we’ll fix it.”
Leaving his airspeeder safely docked, they went into her living room, where C-3PO served tea and then made himself scarce. Covertly considering her colleague, Padmé activated the apartment’s privacy seals, which automatically engaged her listening devices and denied access to all visitors and incoming communications, save for Anakin, Palpatine, and a Senate alert.
“There you are,” she said, choosing her favorite chair. “We won’t be disturbed. Please, Bail, tell me what’s happened.”
Bail hesitated, then sat on a sofa. But he was clearly ill at ease, perching on its very edge, fingers close to gripping his knees. “I’m in possession of some information. From a source that’s reliable, but… let’s say unconventional. It has serious implications for the Republic. And for the Jedi. I’ve been asked to tell them what I’ve been told.”
She reached for her mug of tea and sipped, frowning. “If it’s Jedi business, why come to me? You should be speaking with them.”
Ignoring his own tea, he shook his head. “I don’t know them, Padmé. At least, not well. Not the way you do. And they don’t know me. There’s no reason to think they’d believe what I have to say. Especially given the circumstances.”
“Your—unconventional—source?”
“Exactly.” As though sitting was intolerable, he pushed to his feet and began to roam between the sofa and the window. “Of course, it’s possible the Jedi already know about this. But if they don’t—if they are in danger and don’t realize it—” He pressed a fist against his lips, as though fighting to hold back an intemperate outburst. It was so unlike him, such an outward expression of an inner agitation. “Padmé,” he said, and swung about to face her. “Have you ever heard of the Sith?”
Sith. The name alone was enough to raise her hackles. Twice their machinations had nearly killed her. And because of the hurt inflicted upon Anakin, and the murder of Qui-Gon Jinn, and the sufferings of Naboo under Trade Federation occupation, the Sith had earned her undying hatred.
But she couldn’t tell Bail that. As Naboo’s child-Queen, she’d promised Master Yoda she would never reveal what she’d learned of them. She’d renewed that promise to Obi-Wan on the desperate flight from Geonosis to Coruscant, when she’d overheard things not meant for her ears. Sith lightning. Dooku. A dreadful betrayal.
So with only the smallest twinge of conscience, she looked at Bail Organa and lied to him a second time. “Sith? No. Why? Who—what—are they?”
“I don’t know,” he said, frustrated. “Until this morning I’d never heard of them, either.”
She sipped more tea. “Well, what did your contact tell you?”
“That they’re plotting an attack that will devastate the Jedi.”
She felt herself go cold, then hot. “You’re sure of this?”
Bail dropped to the sofa again. “I didn’t misunderstand the message, if that’s what you mean. Padmé, please. I can’t do this without you. You’re the Jedi’s friend, a trusted ally. If you speak up for me, if you vouch for me to them, then—”
“They’ll trust you?” Though she was deeply disturbed by his news, she had to smile. “The friend of my friend is my friend?”
His own smile was as brief. “Something like that.”
The Sith. Anakin had told her what little he knew of them. He never admitted it, but she knew they scared him. Knew he still mourned the loss of Qui-Gon Jinn. And she knew that the scars from his loss to Dooku were more than physical. But he didn’t only fear them for himself. He feared for the Republic, for the galaxy, should their darkness win, should they prove victorious in their clandestine war against the Jedi.
Sworn to secrecy or not, he’d want me to help.
She nodded at Bail. “All right.”
As Bail watched, chewing the edge of his thumb, she retrieved her private comlink from a nearby display shelf and opened a channel to the Jedi Temple. “This is Senator Amidala. I need to speak with Obi-Wan Kenobi.”
Bail was right about one thing: the Jedi counted her an ally. There was no objection to her request.
“Senator Amidala? This is Obi-Wan Kenobi. How can I assist you?”
He sounded surprised. Cagily cautious. “Master Kenobi, I wonder if you could spare me a little of your time. Something’s come up, and I’d appreciate your advice.”
“Of course,” he replied, after a moment. “Did you wish to come to the Temple, or—”
“If you could come to me at home I’d be most grateful,” she said quickly. “Now would be convenient, if that’s convenient for you.”
“Certainly, Senator. I’ll be with you shortly.”
“Thank you, Master Kenobi,” she said, disconnecting the link.
Bail was staring at her, almost bemused. “Just like that? You snap your fingers and the Jedi jump?”
She raised an eyebrow at him. “Isn’t that why you came to me, Bail?”
“Well… yes, I suppose, but I didn’t think—I wasn’t aware—” He shook his head. “I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be,” she told him. “I might be able to get Obi-Wan to come here, but I can’t make him believe you, or your story.”
“Do you believe me?” he asked, considering her closely.
“I believe you think there’s a genuine threat.” She shrugged. “That’s more than enough for me. Will you be all right for a moment? I want to go outside and wait for Obi-Wan.”
“Of course.”
“Good.” She smiled. “I suggest you take a moment to order your thoughts before he gets here. Marshal your arguments. It’s true you have an excellent reputation, but I have it on good authority that this particular Jedi’s not overly fond of politicians.”
“Yet he makes an exception for you?”
“Sometimes,” she replied, and left Bail to think about that while she waited outside for Anakin’s former Master.
He came in an unremarkable Temple airspeeder, swinging the vehicle to a halt beside Bail’s sleek, expensive model with a casual expertise that echoed Anakin’s, and with enough speed to betray impatience—or anxiety. She hurried to meet him as he leapt to the veranda.
“What is it?” he demanded. “Have you heard from Anakin?”
From Anakin? She stared at him. “No. Why would I have heard from Anakin? He and I—you made it quite clear—I don’t even know where Anakin is, Obi-Wan.”
A muddle of emotions touched his face: chagrin, relief, annoyance, uncertainty. Then his familiar self-control returned. “I’m sorry. A misunderstanding, Senator. I thought that—you sounded concerned over the comlink and I—” He looked down at her hand on his arm.
“You’re worried for him,” she said, leaving her hand where it was. “Is he in trouble?”
Faint color touched Obi-Wan’s pale face. “Padmé, I can’t—it’s not appropriate that I—” He shook his head. “I can’t.”
“Can’t what?” she said softly, and withdrew her hand. “Admit you’re worried? Of course you can. You can to me. I’m not Yoda. I’m not Mace Windu. I don’t think caring for someone is a crime. Is Anakin in trouble?”
She didn’t think he’d answer. Thought instead he’d put her in her Senatorial place with a few chilly, well-chosen words. He was good at that. But he didn’t. Instead she saw his Jedi mask slip again, just for a heartbeat. Saw that beneath his stoic exterior he was as conflicted as Anakin so often was. In his eyes, the need to talk. To share. To know he wasn’t alone in being afraid.
“He’s… on a mission,” he said at last. “I can’t tell you where, or what it is. But it’s not proving as straightforward as we’d hoped. We’d thought to have hear
d from him by this morning… but we haven’t.”
She felt her heart thud. “Is he hurt?”
“No,” he said quickly, vehemently. “Just… challenged. This mission is important, a great deal depends on its success. I should be there with him, he shouldn’t be facing it alone, but my injuries—I was prevented—”
It was so unlike Obi-Wan to be incoherent. It was his articulate self-possession in the face of danger that so impressed her. Even though she hadn’t entirely forgiven him for his interference in her life, she felt a surge of pity.
For all our differences we have this one thing in common. We both love Anakin, and we always will.
“It’s not your fault, Obi-Wan. You didn’t abandon him. You nearly died. Although…” She looked him up and down. “It seems you’ve made a remarkable recovery.”
He shrugged that away. “The Temple healers are very skilled. Padmé, why am I here?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “I have a visitor, Obi-Wan. Senator Bail Organa of Alderaan. He claims to have received word of a planned attack against you… by the Sith.”
Between breaths he changed. She felt it. Felt the warmth of his humanity flash-freeze to ice. Felt the air surrounding them crackle with power. In the hangar on Naboo, facing the red-and-black Sith assassin—in her apartment bedroom, having narrowly escaped being murdered by the bounty hunter Zam Wessell—in the arena on Geonosis, staring at monstrous, mechanical death—she’d felt it then, too: Jedi.
She stepped back, her skin prickling. “I’ve told him nothing. Whatever he knows, his contact told him.”
“What contact?” Obi-Wan asked. “What precisely does Senator Organa know?”
“You’ll have to ask him that,” she said. “He came to me because the Jedi don’t know him very well. Because he trusts me, and he knows you trust me, too.”