Queen's Peril

by E. K. Johnston

  “I don’t want to make it look like we’re piling on Saché,” she said carefully. “But she’s not very good at the voice.”

  The Queen’s voice had been a rising point of contention all week. Since Padmé had tuned it to Sabé without thinking it through, the other three were forced to match Sabé’s tones despite their higher voices. It was difficult for all of them, particularly Rabé. She’d already developed an accent for school to mask the fact that she’d come from the Western Provinces, and the Queen’s voice required an entirely new way of speaking. Still, she was making progress, and it was Saché who was struggling the most. There was only so much her vocal cords could do.

  She slouched back into the room, wearing a mask over her mouth and nose.

  “I know,” she said miserably. “I just can’t, I think, and we’ll all have to accept it. There’s no point in changing the whole plan because one of us can’t do it. I’ll just never be the Queen.”

  Rabé considered it. Ideally, every one of them should be working to become mirrors of each other, but it was proving harder in practice than it was in theory. There was no hiding Saché’s small stature, even with the cleverest of shoes, and Eirtaé’s blond hair made things challenging as well.

  “Fine,” she said, and turned to Eirtaé. “Will that affect your algorithm?”

  “Oh, to hell with the algorithm,” Sabé said. “I’m sick of planning every move and pretending to be each other so that we can fool the guards now and everyone else in an emergency that might never happen.”

  “It’s not that simple, Sabé,” Yané said. She also had a mask over the lower part of her face. It didn’t hide the concern in her eyes. Of all of them, she was the one with the most emotional attachment to the group, it seemed. She hated it when they squabbled, and she did her best to mediate every situation she could. The fact that she was too sick to do that right now wasn’t her fault, but the others knew she still saw it as a personal failure. “Captain Panaka brought us here to be ready, and the Queen let us choose how we’re going to do it. We knew what we were signing on for when we took the job.”

  “So we change the job,” Padmé said. “We haven’t been at this long enough to perfect it. What should we do instead?”

  They considered it for a while. Rabé turned scenarios over in her head, but they were all too similar to what they were already trying. Sabé had no suggestion at all, just a restlessness that wouldn’t leave her alone.

  “We’ve been trying to be like each other physically.” Saché said it in the voice she used when she was thinking out loud. Since no one else had any ideas, they let her run with it. “We’ve practiced walking and talking and dressing and standing and thinking. What if we tried . . . something more practical?”

  “How much more practical than walking can you get?” Eirtaé asked. The confrontation had drained out of her tone.

  “In the evenings, before bed,” Saché said. “We sit around and talk or read. What if it was someone’s task to read out loud, and the rest of us learned each other’s hobbies? We pick up extra skills, it gives us something to do, and it might let us understand the way each of us thinks.”

  “I can show you how to pick locks,” Rabé said.

  “That’s not really a hobby,” Yané said.

  “None of the things I do for fun are hobbies,” Rabé said. “At least lock picking might come in handy someday.”

  “That’s a start,” Saché said. “Padmé?”

  Padmé considered it. Saché’s point was a good one. They were learning each other’s skin, but not each other’s heart. The closeness she’d found with Sabé in those first two weeks when it had just been the two of them, talking in the dark, had yet to be replicated with the others. This might be a good way of closing those gaps, forming those bonds.

  “All right,” she said, and smiled. “Lock picking first.”

  From then on, it got a little easier. Their days were still full of conforming to a single identity that wasn’t any of them, exactly, but their evenings were their own. If Captain Panaka wondered why the Queen had requisitioned several complicated lockplates and then a wide selection of embroidery threads immediately afterward, he didn’t ask. The girls assumed he didn’t want to know, and were more or less correct.

  Amidala left for a tour of the agricultural provinces a few days after they settled into their new pattern. All of the handmaidens went with her, dressed in flame-colored robes and placed throughout the column so that no one knew exactly who was where at any given moment. The page named Padmé was also included in the travel log, with some protest from Panaka. He didn’t mind the “page” accompanying the party, but he was reluctant to make her existence public record. They compromised again: Padmé was officially registered, but she was rarely seen by anyone, since her supposed task as the Queen’s primary archivist for the trip kept her out of the way.

  The Queen traveled with considerable accompaniment. Governor Bibble went with her, along with Graf Zapalo, the agricultural advisor; Horace Vancil, the economic advisor; and all of their staff. Additional security forces were added. Panaka had limited the number of transports to seven, which finally capped the number of people who could be brought along. The eighth vehicle in their retinue contained the Queen’s wardrobe.

  The Queen rode in an open speeder with the governor beside her. It was her first appearance in public outside the capital, and her citizens were eager to see her. Every morning, Rabé painted her face and Eirtaé strapped her into whatever royal regalia Yané declared was particularly important to the region they were passing through. Sabé stood in for her only once, the morning Padmé’s period started and she spent the first few hours of the day in bed waiting for the painkillers to kick in. Aside from that, they decided that it was important for the people of Naboo to see the real Queen, since so many of them had voted for her.

  “How are you not on the suppressant shots?” Rabé asked once Padmé was on her feet and they had an opportunity to switch her back in.

  “It’s not usually this bad,” Padmé admitted. It was deeply embarrassing to be caught off guard by one’s own body, even if Sabé had done a perfect job of filling in for her.

  “You are under more stress than usual,” Yané said. “I’ll add it to your medical profile, and the droids will take care of it when we get back.”

  By the fifth day, they had passed more fields of rotting grain than Padmé ever wanted to see. They had explained it to her, and she had some understanding of it in the first place, even if the exact chemical makeup of the soil had been something she hadn’t known before. It was sound agricultural practice. Soon the farmers would plough the rotted stalks back into the ground, and the fields would be replenished. The minister of finance was along on the trip to reassure everyone that they would be properly compensated, and between the promise of currency and the presence of the Queen, there was a certain festival atmosphere to the whole thing.

  It smelled, though. And the smell was inescapable. It permeated everything and made her think of rot and ruin and waste. None of those were things that she was comfortable with, but it was important that Amidala be seen to approve of the decision the government had made.

  “Where are we planning to purchase grain from?” Amidala asked Zapalo one afternoon while they rode in the open speeder. There were only eight seats, and Padmé’s dress took a whole row, so it was just her, the governor, the advisors, Panaka, Bibble’s chief aide, and Saché.

  “We’re still considering that, Your Highness,” he said. “Several worlds have been approached and we expect all of them to make a bid. Then we’ll negotiate for the best deal.”

  “Did we approach Karlinus or Jafan?” Amidala named the two planets in the Chommell sector most renowned for agricultural output.

  “No, Your Highness.” Zapalo seemed surprised. “We didn’t. Karlinus, as you know, has focused primarily on tea and silk these past few years. I am not sure if they have a surplus big enough to support us. And Jafan definitel
y does not.”

  “It doesn’t have to support us entirely,” Amidala said. The new voice made people uncomfortable because it made her even harder to read. It was, she admitted, a large part of the appeal. “If we can support their economies, even if it’s only a bit, I think it’s a matter worth exploring.”

  The advisors exchanged looks and then turned to Bibble. His aide was already tapping on his recorder.

  “There’s no reason we can’t look into it, Your Highness,” Bibble said. “And I also think reaching out to our neighbors first is a good approach. We can’t rely on them entirely, but we can see if there’s a chance for a mutually beneficial deal.”

  “Very well,” Vancil said. “I’ll have my people begin the process of coordinating with the agriculture ministry as soon as we get back to Theed.”

  “Thank you.” The Queen was always gracious, and let the conversation turn to subjects her advisors found less intimidating.

  Saché, whose page persona was so unexceptional that most of the government officials had already stopped paying attention to her unless they needed something, was perched on the jump seat at the front of the car and faced backward. She had the clearest view of everyone’s faces. Bibble was pleased. Panaka was carefully neutral. Neither of the advisors was thrilled, but they weren’t openly opposed. It was Padmé’s face that was the most interesting, though. While the others clearly considered the matter closed for now, Padmé was still turning it over. She turned her face upward, like she was enjoying the sun, but Saché knew better. She was thinking of the other planets in the sector. And she wasn’t going to stop until she had what she wanted.

  Padmé met her gaze when she looked down, and Saché nodded, barely moving her head. Whatever it was, the handmaidens would help her get it.

  The apprentice sat in the dark, waiting for his master’s call. He’d lingered in the shadows for years now, ever since he had been chosen, and it was starting to grate on his nerves. He knew that was intentional. It made him angry to wait, to be pushed to the side while his master manipulated the galaxy without him. It made him feel unwanted, and worse: unneeded. And, of course, that made him angry, too.

  Maul had mastered anger a long time ago. He’d wrestled with it in the deep caves of Dathomir as a child, and he’d wrestled so loudly that it had drawn his master’s attention. Most would have let the anger burn them up. Most would have flared out in glorious rage, taking untold numbers with them into the blackness of the void, but not Maul. Maul was made for better things, and his anger was his fuel.

  He was still working on hatred.

  There were just so many things to hate. He hated the way the fog on Dathomir had clouded his vision and made the witches stronger. He hated the way he had been cast aside as a male-child until some offworlder saw his use. He hated that same offworlder for training him so astutely, through such pain and suffering, and then not letting him loose to wreak the same upon the galaxy. Most of all, he hated the Jedi.

  They hadn’t come for him. He didn’t know if they had sensed him and found him unworthy, or if, in his untrained state, he hadn’t been worth their time, but it didn’t matter. They had ignored him, passed him over for some unknown reason, and even though he had been better served by their neglect—he was more powerful with his anger than he could have been without it—he counted the days until he could make them pay.

  The pieces of his lightsaber hovered in the air in front of him, separated from the wholeness while he tinkered with the alignment for the hundredth time. The lightsaber was death. This, too, was something he had been forced to grapple for. Every part of it was stolen, and every part of it was irrevocably his, paid for in blood and pain, only some of which had been his own. He focused, calling on the well of darkness inside him, the parts that had scared the younger witches and now delighted his master so much. With the ease of much practice, he pulled the saber together, the parts aligning as easily as everything else in his life had not. When it was completed, he stretched out a hand, pressed the button, and lost himself in the hum.

  If asked, Maul would say he feared nothing.

  He was wrong.

  Chancellor Valorum did not enjoy meetings with the Trade Federation. He was not allowed to admit it in public, but he harbored a vague distaste for senators who represented corporations, not planets. It was an outdated viewpoint, which was just one of the reasons he had to keep his dislike a secret. Most of the galaxy believed that a person’s employer had just as much right to a place in the government as a person did. But that didn’t mean he had to like it. Only that he must, in his current position, pretend to.

  The tax situation was starting to get ridiculous. Any other bill that had failed in the Senate so many times would have been shoved under a rug by now, but for some reason, variations on this one kept coming back. It was not unlike being haunted, except instead of a ghost that might be exorcised, it was bureaucrats that just would not stop talking about it.

  “You cannot expect the Mid Rim planets to accept that!” Senator Palpatine argued, barely bothering to moderate his tone for the chancellor’s office. “They don’t have coffers that deep.”

  This was the fourth committee meeting Valorum had hosted in the hope of avoiding a general brawl in the Senate chambers. The blue-shrouded senatorial guards inspired some sense of decorum from the delegates, and the wide windows kept the atmosphere light and airy. So far, at least, it had all been for naught: nothing had been agreed upon.

  “The Trade Federation is happy to offer aid to any planet that requires it,” Lott Dodd fired back. “We have been over that several times, Senator.”

  Senator Yarua, the Wookiee delegate, said something too quickly for Valorum to understand. The speaker’s emotions were clear enough, but Valorum looked down to the screen to get the translation.

  “No, Senator,” Palpatine said. “I don’t think the terms of that aid would be very attractive either.”

  A chime sounded from the comm system, indicating that the allotted time for the meeting was over. Everyone had somewhere else to be. Valorum did his best not to look too put out. At this stage, a floor fight was starting to look inevitable.

  “Walk with me, Senator,” he said to Palpatine as the others filed out. The Neimoidians looked affronted, but Valorum was trusted enough to be beyond such petty accusations of favoritism. Still, he sent Mas Amedda with the trade delegation in the hope that the presence of the vice chair would make them feel better.

  “I apologize, Chancellor,” Palpatine said as the two men made their way down the corridor toward the senator’s office. “I didn’t mean to be so aggressive in there.”

  “It’s your own planet,” Valorum said with some sympathy. “No one can blame you for feeling a bit emotional about it.”

  “Thank you,” Palpatine said.

  “Do you think we would benefit at all from having an independent moderator step in?” Valorum asked.

  “A Jedi, you mean?” Palpatine said, appearing surprised. “I hadn’t thought of that. I don’t think we’re that far gone, sir, and I’d hate to impinge upon senatorial privilege until we needed to.”

  “You’re probably right,” Valorum said. The Jedi were a good solution, but a very extreme one. It wouldn’t do to call them in over a trade dispute before all the arguments were presented. That was the sort of thing that happened outside of Coruscant.

  They reached Palpatine’s office, and the senator took his leave. Valorum continued back to his chambers. It was good to have sensible allies.

  Shmi Skywalker watched as her son’s podracer caught fire and crashed into a dune. She wanted to scream, to rage that Watto made him do it when it wasn’t safe. No other humans had ever competed in a podrace, and Anakin’s dubious record was in jeopardy every time he waited at the start line. But she could do nothing. She couldn’t protest or argue, couldn’t barter or trade. She had nothing of her own to give.

  Except Anakin himself, of course, which Watto already knew and took advantage of at eve
ry turn.

  The med-droids reached the podracer right after the fire suppressors kicked in, and Shmi could see them pulling apart the tangled metal in search of a survivor. At least he hadn’t been thrown this time. He’d crashed on a rocky part of the raceway, not that sand was much softer when you hit it at speed. Even aflame, the podracer was moderately safer than a body slam into the ground.

  Watto hovered over, the flap of his wings giving him away long before he reached her, even though she didn’t turn around.

  “The boy’s fine,” he said. “Like always.”

  “Someday it won’t be always, Watto,” Shmi said.

  “Maybe someday he’ll stop ruining my podracer, too,” Watto said, laughing. He flew off to collect his winnings—he never bet on his own, obviously—and Shmi resumed waiting for the med-droids to finish.

  Shmi went to the racing pit where they would bring him. She was a familiar face down there. Droids weren’t exactly known for their sympathetic glances, but she felt like they were all giving them to her as she walked to the medical area. She arrived just before Anakin did.

  He was on a stretcher. It dwarfed his small form, and they quickly transferred him to a cot. He didn’t appear to be bleeding too badly, but Shmi couldn’t tell if he’d injured anything internally.

  “It’s okay, Mom,” he said when he saw her. He was still full of adrenaline, beyond pain and riding the high of the race. He loved it so much, and he had so few things to love. This was the real reason she could never deny him.

  “Ani,” she said. She ruffled his hair.

  “They’re just going to put me out while the bacta knits my femurs,” he chirruped.

  Shmi lifted the cover and saw that both his legs were twisted. That, at least, Watto would happily pay to fix.

  “Don’t worry, Mom,” Anakin said. “I’m always going to be with you.”

  He reached for her hand, and she took it. It was ridiculous that she accepted this as comfort in this situation—lately Anakin was embarrassed when she mothered him in public—but she didn’t know what else to do. If she started screaming, she would never stop.