Chapter 16: In Search of Shmi Skywalker, Part II

   CHAPTER 16: IN SEARCH OF SHMI SKYWALKER, PART II

   Dathomir

   25:5:7945 CRC

The Millennium Falcon cuts through Dathomir's toxic atmosphere with her repulsors at maximum output, the ship's hull groaning against the planet's crushing gravity. Inside the cockpit, Quinlan Vos stares at the sensor readings with bloodshot eyes, his face still pale from the psychometric strain. Paril Zannfel fights the controls as the Falcon banks hard between two jagged peaks, the ship's hull scraping against rock in a shower of sparks.

"You said you recognized the atmospheric patterns," Paril shouts over the screaming engines. "But you didn't say the planet was trying to kill us."

Quinlan presses himself against the bulkhead as the Falcon lurches through another thermal updraft. "The readings are fluctuating because of the volcanic activity," he explains, his voice tight with exertion. "But the cave—the Force signature that was pulling me there, it's gone."

Mace Windu's fingers tighten around the co-pilot's console as the Falcon drops through a cloud of sulfuric vapor. The cockpit's emergency lighting bathes his face in harsh red as he studies the empty sensor displays. "The cave was real. You saw it through the boy's eyes."

Paril fights the controls as a massive gust of superheated air slams into the starboard hull. The ship's shields flare to life with a high-pitched whine that sets his teeth on edge. "If the cave was real and the signature's gone, they knew we were coming."

The Falcon's engines roar as Paril fights to maintain altitude, the ship's hull vibrating with the effort. The cockpit's emergency lighting bathes Mace Windu's face in harsh red as he studies the sensor displays, his jaw set in a grim line. Quinlan presses against the bulkhead, his breathing still unsteady from the psychic strain.

"They moved her," Quinlan says, his voice rough. "The moment we left Naboo, they knew."

Paril banks the Falcon hard to port, narrowly avoiding another volcanic vent. "How the hell could they know that fast?"

Mace Windu's gaze remains fixed on the empty sensor readouts. "The same way they knew to take her to begin with," Master Windu theorized to the other Jedi. "We need to consider everything as a potential move in a game of Dejarik with the Sith."

The Millennium Falcon drops through a final layer of toxic cloud, the repulsors whining as Paril brings the ship into a steep descent toward a gully marked on Quinlan's rough coordinates. The cockpit's red emergency lights wash over their faces in the sudden dimness. Below, the Dathomirian forest is a tapestry of deep reds and purples, the ground choked with twisted vegetation that seems to writhe in the perpetual twilight.

Quinlan points a trembling finger toward a shadowed cleft between two jagged rock formations. "There. That's the energy I felt. It's fading, but the residue is thick."

The Falcon's landing gear crunches into the damp, spongy ground of the gully. The ship settles with a final groan of stressed metal. The cockpit canopy slides open, releasing the stale, recycled air into Dathomir's atmosphere—a thick, metallic tang mixed with the scent of decaying vegetation.

Quinlan Vos is the first out, dropping from the ramp before it fully extends. His boots sink slightly into the dark soil. He moves forward, his eyes closed, one hand extended. The Force here is a cold, heavy blanket, pressing down with ancient malice. "The compulsion was here," he murmurs, his voice barely carrying over the distant rumble of a magma flow. "Strong. Recent."

Mace Windu descends more slowly, his dark robes brushing against the damp stone as he follows Quinlan toward the cave entrance. The opening is narrow, carved into the side of a jagged cliff face by centuries of volcanic activity and darker forces. The stone around the entrance bears faint geometric patterns—the same ones Quinlan glimpsed through Anakin's eyes.

Paril stays with the Falcon, his hand resting on the ship's blaster cannon controls. The cockpit's scanners continue their futile sweep of the surrounding area, returning only static and interference from the planet's electromagnetic storms.

The Jedi Master and Jedi Knight approach with a caution that the novel threat posed by the Sith, the unseen hands orchestrating this elaborate game. Quinlan pauses at the cave's threshold, his nostrils flaring as he draws in the stale air. "The air is still," he says. "Whatever happened here ended hours ago."

Mace Windu's lightsaber ignites with a sharp hiss, the blue blade casting harsh shadows across the cave's entrance. The beam reflects off the damp stone walls, revealing more of the geometric carvings Quinlan had seen in his vision. "Remember, use caution and treat everything as a potential threat," Master Windu said softly, his voice carrying the weight of a lifetime spent fighting to protect the innocent. "The Dark Side is present here, we're dealing with a danger much deeper than the Nightbrothers and Nightsisters."

> Mace Windu uses the Force to look for a clue; something Quinlan can use his psychometric abilities to examine.

The blue light of Mace Windu's lightsaber casts a stark, moving shadow across the damp stone floor as he steps into the cave. He extinguishes the blade, plunging them into near-darkness broken only by the faint, sickly glow from the cave's narrow opening. His eyes close.

He doesn't search for physical clues. He reaches out with the Force, feeling the chamber's recent history. The compulsion Quinlan described hangs in the air like a foul perfume, its edges already fraying. He pushes past it, seeking the shape of the intention behind it. Not the victim's fear, but the architect's design.

The Force flows into the chamber, a cold, deliberate current against the lingering dark side residue. Mace Windu's perception expands, brushing against the sharp edges of the compulsion that held Shmi Skywalker. He does not touch the fear itself—that is Anakin's echo, and Quinlan's burden. Instead, he seeks the imprint of the one who built the cage.

The cave's silence is thick, broken only by the distant drip of water somewhere deeper in the stone. Mace Windu's breathing slows. His mind touches the cold, structured patterns of the compulsion—not the raw emotion of the prisoner, but the precise, calculating architecture of the jailer. It is a latticework of control, each strand placed with surgical intent. And at its center, a flaw.

He opens his eyes. "The darksider, they left a fragment of themselves here," Mace says, his voice quiet but carrying the weight of certainty. "A piece of their presence they could not fully withdraw."

Quinlan moves closer, his nostrils flaring as he draws in the stale air. "I can feel it too. Like a shadow that refuses to fade." He kneels near the stone dais where Shmi had been held, his fingers hovering just above the surface. The stone dais is still warm from the residual energy. Quinlan Vos presses his bare palm flat against the carved surface, his eyes closing immediately. The psychometric flood hits him like a physical blow.

He sees the Zabrak's hands—red, tattooed, gloved—arranging something on the stone. Not Shmi. A small, dark object. A holoprojector. The image resolves: a hooded figure, gloved hands clasped, speaking in a metallic rasp. The words are indistinct, muffled by the psychic echo, but the intent is clear: a command. Depart. Now.

Quinlan's hand jerks away from the stone as if the dais had turned into white-hot metal. He staggers back, his chest heaving, the psychic residue of the Zabrak's obedience clashing with the coldness of the cave. "He didn't just leave," Quinlan says, his voice strained. "He was ordered out. He didn't want to go, but the command was absolute."

Mace Windu studies the stone dais, his gaze fixed on the spot where Quinlan felt the echo. "The timing is precise. He knew immediately we were in transit."

Quinlan wipes a fresh bead of sweat from his brow, his expression grim. "The kidnapper was hesitant. There was a flicker of frustration in the imprint. He felt he had more to gain by staying, but the master's will overrode his own."

The cave's interior remains oppressive, the geometric carvings on the walls seeming to absorb the dim light. Mace turns toward the narrow opening, his eyes scanning the horizon of Dathomir's red forests. "They are playing with us. This was not a retreat; it was a repositioning." Master Windu steps toward the cave mouth, his dark robes dragging across the grit as he lets the Force move through his mind. "The master doesn't just want the boy's fear. He wants more, but what it is… that's beyond my grasp."

Paril's voice crackles through their comlinks, distorted by the planet's electromagnetic interference. "Not a threat yet, but there's some Nightbrothers across the way, not close," he says, "but we should think about getting off this rock soon."

Mace Windu turns his head toward the entrance, his gaze sweeping the red canopy of the Dathomirian forest. "We have what we need for now," he says into the comlink. "Prepare for immediate departure."

Quinlan Vos remains by the dais, his hand still tingling from the psychometric contact. He looks at the geometric carvings on the wall, his mind racing through the image of the tattooed hands and the metallic voice. "The frustration I felt from the assailant... it wasn't just about leaving. He felt he was being used as a tool, not a warrior."

"Sith are always tools for their masters," Mace responds, his voice flat. He moves toward the cave mouth, his boots crunching on the volcanic grit. "The question is what the master intends to achieve by moving the woman now. To deliver her to the boy's doorstep is a psychological strike, not a tactical one."

The Millennium Falcon ascends from the gully, her engines screaming as she punches through the thick, sulfurous haze of Dathomir with the course set for Naboo.

   Nute Gunray's Apartment - Coruscant 

   25:5:7945 CRC

The Viceroy's private suite in the Federation embassy tower was all sharp angles and expensive, soulless furniture. Nute Gunray paced before a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking Coruscant's endless cityscape, his long fingers twisting together. The hologram of Senator Lott Dod flickered on a low table.

"The shipments are proceeding as scheduled," Dod's tinny voice reported. "The Judiciary escort is a formality. Their scans are superficial."

Gunray stopped pacing. "And the Directorate? Do they suspect anything?"

"They suspect profit," Dod said, a hint of impatience in his tone. "The phased agreement looks like a compromise. They see increased revenue from the plasma, not a strategic delay."

The Neimoidian's throat pouch trembled. He had not slept well since the summit. The apartment's recycled air tasted of recycled air and anxiety-sweat. Gunray turned away from the window, his silk robes whispering against the polished floor as he moved toward the holographic projector. The Viceroy's hands hovered over the controls, then retreated as if the device might bite.

It suddenly emitted a soft chime, distinct from the standard Federation channel. Gunray froze mid-pace, his silken robes falling still. The chime repeated, insistent. He had given this frequency to only one contact, and it was not listed in any embassy directory.

He moved quickly, his heart thudding against his chest carapace. His long fingers darted to the room's control panel, sealing the door and activating a privacy field that hummed faintly. The window's transparisteel opaqued, cutting off the view of Coruscant's endless twilight. Only then did he approach the projector, his hand trembling as he accepted the transmission.

The blue light resolved not into the crisp image of Senator Dod, but into a shrouded, hooded figure, its face a void of shadow. Gloved hands were clasped behind its back. The metallic voice spoke without hesitation. "The time has come to test the limits of your agreement with Naboo."

Gunray's throat pouch deflated as he sank into his chair. "The shipments continue, my lord. The Queen's signature makes it all legal. The Senate cannot act."

"Legal is a word for bureaucrats and fools," the voice replied. "We require a new development. A provocation that will force the Jedi to act prematurely."

Gunray's long fingers gripped the chair's armrests. "The blockade is stable. The droid army maintains its positions. What would you have me do?"

The hooded figure shifted slightly, though no face became visible beneath the darkness. "You will claim that Naboo security forces attacked one of our supply convoys. Fabricate evidence. Create casualties among our personnel if you must."

The Viceroy's throat pouch tightened. "But the agreement—"

"The agreement is a leash for the Senate, not for us," the metallic voice cut through his protest. "You will use this provocation to launch a limited droid raid. Target a secondary facility near Theed. Cause chaos. Leave damage. Take prisoners."

The hologram's blue light made the sweat on Gunray's brow gleam. "A raid? Under the current terms, that would constitute a breach. The Judiciary patrols would—"

"Let them," the voice interrupted, flat and final. "You will withdraw before they can mount an effective response. The goal is not conquest. It is escalation. The Jedi on Naboo will be forced to react. They will leave the boy less protected. Their attention will fracture."

Gunray's mind raced through the logistics, the risks. The Directorate would question the move. The cost in droids. The political fallout. And the Jedi. "I wasn't aware there was a Jedi presence in Naboo," the Viceroy answered slowly, testing the waters.

"You are aware of nothing that matters," the voice replied. "You are aware only of your instructions… and your instructions are to execute this operation within the next six hours."

The transmission ended with a soft click. The blue light faded, leaving Gunray in his darkened apartment, the city lights beyond the window still cut off by the privacy field. Nute Gunray stares at the empty space where the hologram had been, his throat pouch fluttering with rapid, shallow breaths. The silence in the sealed apartment presses against his eardrums. His long fingers tap an irregular rhythm against the chair's armrest, the sharp clicking sound echoing off the polished walls.

Fifteen minutes later, the Vicroy entered the Trade Federation office. "Rune," he calls out, his voice cracking.

The office door chimes and cycles open. Rune Haako's green skin mottled with perspiration. He had been working on the quartermaster's manifests office. "Viceroy? You sounded—"

"Where have we been having problems on Naboo?" Gunray asks, standing so abruptly that his chair skids backward. "With the locals since the agreement?"

   Theed Palace - Theed, Naboo

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The pale Naboo sun cass long rectangles across the polished floor of the Palace as Anakin Skywalker woke up from another dream. Anakin approaches the two Jedi Masters. His bare feet make no sound on the polished stone, but his breathing is uneven, his small shoulders hunched slightly forward as if bracing for something. Qui-Gon Jinn looks up from where he's been examining a data pad containing local security protocols, his expression softening immediately.

"Master Qui-Gon," Anakin says, his voice quiet but steady. "I had another dream. She was speaking to me." He stops a few paces from them, his hands clasped behind his back. "It was just one word, but I remember it clearly. She said 'home.'"

Qui-Gon sets the data pad aside, giving Anakin his full attention. The morning light catches the silver in his beard as he studies the boy's face, searching for more than just words. "Home," he repeats slowly, testing the concept. "That is a significant word for someone to use, especially when her meaning might be unclear."

Obi-Wan sets down the cup of tea he'd been holding, the ceramic clinking softly against the stone table. His brow furrows slightly, his analytical mind already dissecting the implications. "The dream felt different from the others?" he asks, his tone gentle but probing. "Clearer? More direct?"

Anakin shakes his head, his fingers twisting together. "It wasn't like the others. The others were... fragmented. Like pieces of a puzzle I couldn't fit together. This one felt real. Her voice was right next to me." He looks up at Qui-Gon, his eyes bright with unspoken questions. "Does 'home' mean Tatooine? Or Coruscant?"

Obi-Wan exchanges a glance with his master, his jaw tightening. "The word home carries different meanings for different people. For some, it means where they were born. For others, where they feel safe." He sets his tea down slowly, watching Anakin's reaction. "Your mother's definition might not match yours."

Qui-Gon kneels so he's at Anakin's eye level, the morning light outlining his profile. "When you heard her say it, what did you feel? Not what you thought, but what you felt in that moment."

Anakin's brow furrows as he searches for the emotion. "I felt... relieved. Like she wanted me to know something important." His small hands unclench. "And I felt her trying to say more, but the dream ended before she could finish."

The chamber's quiet is suddenly shattered by the sharp wail of the palace alarm system. The alarm's wail reverberates through the stone chamber, a piercing shriek that drowns out the morning bird calls from the palace gardens. Anakin flinches, his small frame tensing as the sound drills into his ears. Qui-Gon is moving before the first alarm cycle completes, his hand already reaching for his lightsaber while his other arm extends protectively toward the boy.

The chamber door explodes inward as Captain Panaka and four palace guards burst through, blasters drawn. The alarm's wail continues, its rhythmic shriek creating a sound that the high ceilings amplify into something almost physical. "Masters, we have a situation," Panaka shouts over the noise, his face flushed with exertion. "Trade Federation droids are attacking the plasma refinery outside the city. It's a full-scale raid."

Obi-Wan's hand closes around his lightsaber hilt as he scans the chamber for threats. "The palace is not under attack?"

"Not yet," Panaka responds, his gaze sharp and focused. "But they're hitting our energy infrastructure. The Queen is secured, but the entire city's on alert." He glances at Anakin, his expression hardening. "Both of you and the boy needs to be moved to a secure location immediately." The alarm's piercing wail continues as Obi-Wan activates his lightsaber, the blue blade casting harsh shadows across the chamber's stone walls. Qui-Gon's hand remains firm on Anakin's shoulder, his other hand hovering near his own lightsaber hilt. The boy's breathing has become shallow and rapid, his small frame vibrating with the alarm's frequency.

The alarm's wail cuts through the chamber's stillness as Captain Panaka's words sink in. The Trade Federation is moving from blockade to active assault, targeting Naboo's infrastructure in broad daylight. Anakin's face goes pale beneath the morning light, his small fingers tightening around Qui-Gon's sleeve as the reality of another attack settles over him. The boy's eyes dart between the palace guards and the open doorway where more alarms echo from deeper in the palace.

Qui-Gon's grip on Anakin's shoulder tightens slightly, a grounding pressure amidst the chaos. "The refinery is outside the city walls," he says, his voice calm but carrying an edge of urgency. "If they're hitting our energy infrastructure, they're testing our response time." He looks directly at Panaka. "Where is the Queen?"

> Qui-Gon Jinn takes Anakin and Obi-Wan to where the Queen is being hidden with plans for the Jedi to be on standby for defenses if the invasion reaches Theed. 

Captain Panaka's jaw tightens as he processes the question, his gaze flickering toward the doorway where more alarms echo from deeper in the palace. "The Queen is secured in the royal apartments with her handmaidens. My men are establishing a perimeter." He pauses, his expression unreadable. "But with the refinery under attack, we're stretched thin. The palace guards are being redeployed to critical positions."

Obi-Wan's lightsaber hums as he scans the chamber for any sign of immediate threat, his analytical mind already cataloguing vulnerabilities. "This feels like a diversion," he says, his voice sharp and focused. "The refinery is valuable, but not strategically essential. They're drawing attention away from something else."

The alarm's wail reverberates through the palace corridors as Qui-Gon leads the group through the winding passages that lead to the royal apartments. Anakin keeps close to his side, small fingers still tight on his sleeve, while Obi-Wan falls back to cover their rear, his lightsaber deactivated but his hand never far from its hilt. The morning light from the narrow windows creates a rhythmic strobe effect as they move deeper into the palace's secure core.

"This isn't about the refinery," Qui-Gon says as they navigate a narrow corridor where stone walls bear ancient carvings of Naboo's founding. "The Trade Federation doesn't attack their own profit sources unless they've already secured it through other means. This feels like theater."

Obi-Wan nods grimly. "The boy's dream, the timing, the coincidence of everything converging today. They want us reacting, not thinking."

Panaka leads them through a final security door that slides open with a hiss of pressurized hydraulics. Beyond lies a circular chamber Qui-Gon recognizes from his earlier briefing—the Queen's private strategy room, not her apartments. The walls are lined with holoprojectors currently displaying a tactical map of Theed and its surrounding districts. Red dots cluster around the plasma refinery complex five kilometers east of the city walls.

Queen Amidala stands at the center of the room, but she is not dressed in her heavy ceremonial robes. She wears the simple grey tunic and trousers of a handmaiden, her hair bound back in a practical braid. The decoy—Saché—stands near the main holotable, wearing the full regalia, her face a mask of serene concentration as she listens to a report from a communications officer.

Saché approaches the group of Jedi with calm assurance, her movements precise and practiced. "Masters, I am relieved to see you here." Saché's voice carries the measured tone of royalty while her eyes remain fixed on the holotable display. "The Trade Federation is claiming that Naboo security forces opened fire on a supply convoy. They're using it as justification for what they call a 'limited defensive response.'"

Obi-Wan moves to the holotable, his gaze sharp as he studies the tactical readouts. "A supply convoy? The agreement specifically designated escorted shipments through designated corridors." He taps a control, bringing up the convoy routes. "This raid is targeting infrastructure that has nothing to do with those routes."

Captain Panaka steps closer to the holotable, his jaw tightening as he studies the blinking red markers. "The refinery complex is completely separate from any convoy route. They're hitting our energy production, not our supply lines." He looks up at Qui-Gon, his expression grim. "This isn't about cargo or jurisdiction. It's about leverage."

The real Queen Amidala watches silently with the handmaidens, her grey tunic blending into the shadows near the chamber's curved wall. She isuncertain if the Jedi know of the decoy, but certain they will not shine a light on it if they do. Sabé stands close enough to intercept any direct approach toward her, while Saché continues her performance at the holotable with seamless composure. The decoy's white-painted face doesn't flinch as explosions rock the distant refinery, the sound muffled by the palace's thick stone walls but visible in the tremor of water in a decorative basin near the door.

Saché's handmaidens move in perfect synchronization, adjusting the holotable displays as new data streams in from palace sensors. The decoy queen remains focused on the tactical situation, her voice calm and measured as she addresses the gathered group. "The Trade Federation is demanding immediate de-escalation talks, claiming they will withdraw forces once 'hostilities cease.' They've set a deadline of three hours."

Obi-Wan circles the holotable, his gaze sharp as he examines the raid's footprint. "We should contact Master Windu. Let him know what he may be flying into," Obi-Wan says, his voice tight. "If the Federation is moving, they'll be on high alert when he arrives at the blockade."

> Qui-Gon Jinn contacts the Millennium Falcon to inform Jedi Master Mace Windu and Paril Zannfel of the Trade Federation skirmish that will be happening for at least three more hours. 

Qui-Gon Jinn turns from the holotable, his movements precise and controlled despite the urgency in the room. He steps to a wall console near the chamber's entrance and activates a secure comm channel. The device emits a sharp electronic tone before connecting. "Millennium Falcon, this is Qui-Gon Jinn. Come in."

Static crackles for several seconds before a familiar voice breaks through. "Qui-Gon? You're early. We're still about forty minutes out from Naboo space." Paril Zannfel's voice carries the strain of prolonged piloting, his words punctuated by the faint hum of the Falcon's engines.

"Change of plans," Qui-Gon says, his gaze fixed on the tactical display where red markers continue to cluster around the refinery. "The Trade Federation has launched a coordinated attack on the plasma refinery outside Theed. They're claiming provocation, but it's a diversionary strike."

The holoprojector flickers as Quinlan Vos's face resolves into view from the Falcon's cockpit. His eyes are bloodshot, his face still pale from the psychic strain of Dathomir. "We're seeing it now," he says, his voice tight with exhaustion and something sharper—recognition. "The blockade just shifted formation. They're positioning to intercept anything leaving the planet."

"How close are you?" Qui-Gon asks, his hand pressing against the console to stabilize the connection.

Quinlan glances at a display off-screen, his jaw tightening. "Thirty-seven minutes to Naboo space. But if they've moved into intercept patterns, we'll be flying straight into their net." He hesitates, his gaze fixed on something beyond the transmission. "Master Windu wants to know if you have visual confirmation on Federation troop movements. He's already running tactical simulations."

Obi-Wan's fingers dancing across the controls as he brings up additional sensor data. "We have visual confirmation of droid transports launching from the Lucrehulk-class battleship. They're deploying ground forces in three separate waves, coordinated with the refinery attack." He switches the display to show orbital traffic patterns. "The blockade ships are moving into defensive positions around the main supply corridors. They're not expecting us to try and leave."

Master Windu's image flickers as the Falcon's communications array struggles with Naboo's atmospheric interference. "We'll stay in the area we are and see what happens with this three hour deadline," he says, his voice carrying the weight of command. "The boy is safe where he is?"

Paril's voice cuts back through. "We're reading increased droid starfighter patrols along the main approach vector. They're not just defending—they're hunting." The Falcon's engines whine in the background, a sound of straining power.

Qui-Gon's eyes meet Obi-Wan's across the chamber. "Anakin is secure within the palace. For now. But this attack feels too convenient. It pulls attention away from the city, away from him."

On the holotable, Saché watches the tactical updates with a placid expression that doesn't reach her eyes. "The Federation's deadline gives us time," she says, her voice carrying the Queen's cadence perfectly. "Three hours to either mount a defense or seek another solution… namely in regards to the Gungans," the decoy Queen says softly at the table. "We will wait to assess if this is the proper time to let the Trade Federation know about our new military alliance."

The real Amidala, still in handmaiden grey, moves silently to a secondary console beside Anakin. Her fingers move across the secondary console with precise, practiced motions, her grey handmaiden's sleeve brushing against Anakin's shoulder as she pulls up encrypted communication channels. The boy doesn't flinch at the contact, his small frame tense but focused on the holographic displays. Above them, the holotable continues updating in real time, showing the Federation's tactical maneuvers unfolding across Naboo's surface.

The comm channel crackles with static as Mace Windu's holographic image wavers, his dark features flickering against the blue light. "Three hours," he repeats, his voice carrying the weight of tactical assessment. "That gives us time to coordinate, but not enough to mount a full counteroffensive. Paril, adjust course to approach from the southern vector. I'll coordinate with the Jedi Order and the Republic to coordinate more defenses if this escalates. Millennium Falcon."

Anakin waited silently and nervously on the fringes of the room with the Queen's court. His mind was still clearly on his mom and his dream, the word home, what it all meant and the scary fact that everyone's attention was now entirely focused on the battle unfolding outside the city. Across the bench, one of the Royal handmaiden sit silently and appeared to be deep in thought when their eyes crossed. Somehow Anakin knew she was the real Queen of Naboo. she had looked at him when they first met aboard the Millennium Falcon.

> Anakin Skywalker moves closer to her and says quietly so know one can hear: "You're the Queen aren't you? Don't worry I won't say. I can just feel your kindness." 

Anakin's voice is quiet, so quiet that only the Queen hears him. "My real name is Padmé. You're right… and thank you, Anakin," she whispers. Her grey sleeve brushes against his shoulder again, this time lingering a fraction of a second longer. The kindness he felt in the Force wasn't imagined. "We haven't forgotten about your mother," Padmé says, her voice softer than the hum of the comm equipment. "I promise you, we won't stop looking."

Anakin nods, his small frame relaxing slightly. Padmé glances toward the tactical display where her decoy Saché continues briefing the Jedi. The younger girl's performance is flawless—every gesture measured, every word measured. Padmé's thumb brushes against Anakin's shoulder in a brief, reassuring squeeze before she steps back to maintain the illusion. "You have a gift, Anakin. Most people don't notice details like that. And remember we haven't forgotten about your mother."

Captain Panaka moves closer to the holotable, his attention focused entirely on the tactical readouts. "The refinery attack is spreading," he reports, his voice tight with controlled urgency. "They're moving toward the secondary power grid now. If that goes down, half the city loses power."

Padmé immediately recognizes the urgency as a sign that her presence is needed for decision making and stands. She looks at Anakin, who immediately understands her obligations as Queen. "I'll be back soon. You can tell me more about your mother," she said softly before walking away with Captain Panaka and the other handmaidens. Saché's painted face remains fixed on the tactical display as the decoy queen processes her role in the unfolding crisis. The real Padmé, still in her grey handmaiden's tunic, follows Captain Panaka toward the chamber's rear exit where a secondary door leads to the palace's command center. Her movements are purposeful now, shedding the quiet reserve she showed Anakin for the focused intensity required of a ruler facing an attack on her people.

"The secondary power grid feeds the hospital district," Captain Panaka reports as they move through the corridor, his voice hushed but urgent. "If the Federation wants to create casualties, that's their next target." He glances back at Padmé, his expression grim. "Your Majesty, we need to authorize emergency protocols for the civilian population. Evacuations from the affected sectors."

Padmé's fingers trace the edge of her sleeve as she walks. "And what about the Gungan alliance?" Captain Panaka hesitates in the narrow corridor, his boots echoing against stone as he weighs his words. "The activation codes are ready, but using them exposes everything. If we commit Gungan forces openly, the Trade Federation will know about our alliance within minutes. Once we play the card… the surprise is gone forever."

Padmé looked to Saché and spoke clearly, "As the duly elected Queen of Naboo, I give you permission to authorize the Gungan activation if this military escalation goes one minute longer than 3 hours and 30 minutes," she says, her voice carrying the measured authority she's practiced for years. "Captain Panaka, prepare the secure channel to Boss Rugor Nass. We need their forces ready to be mobilized within two hours." She pauses, her gaze shifting to the tactical display where red markers continue their advance. "The Federation Is an hour and a half into their attack. They want to test the resolve of Naboo. Let them see what happens when our peoples are unified."

Saché nods solemnly, her painted face showing no emotion as she processes the command. She new heroes decoy: to deliver the command and if the walls close in to hide somewhere and divert attention from the location of the real queen. The handmaiden's makeup catches the harsh light from the tactical displays as Saché processes her orders with the quiet discipline of someone who has died a thousand deaths in simulated attacks. Captain Panaka's fingers move across his datapad with practiced speed, his gaze never leaving the red markers that represent droid forces advancing through Naboo's energy infrastructure.

"The Gungan secure channel is active," Panaka reports, his voice low but clear. "I'm transmitting the activation codes now. Boss Rugor Nass will have his army ready to mobilize within the hour." He glances at the real Queen, who stands partially concealed behind a decorative pillar near the chamber's entrance. "Your Majesty, the decoy protocol is in effect. If the palace is breached, Saché will lead any attackers toward the eastern wing while you're evacuated through the maintenance tunnels."

With the orders given, Padmé slipped back into the role of handmaiden and followed Saché and the others back into the strategy room, settling into a position that keeps her in sight of the Jedi delegation. Anakin watches her from his place near the door as she approaches him and says "Thank you for not saying anything, Anakin," her voice quiet. "We can't take any chances."

   Coruscant

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The Scimitar drifts through Coruscant's industrial sector, its cloaking field deflecting the city's sensor sweep. Darth Maul guides the ship to an abandoned landing platform between two cargo complexes. The ship's repulsors whine as they fight against the planet's gravity well, settling onto cracked duracrete stained with decades of industrial runoff. He doesn't cut the engines completely—just enough to maintain basic systems while keeping the ship ready for immediate departure.

The ramp lowers with a mechanical hiss. Shmi Skywalker stumbles down, her legs unsteady from days of Force-induced suspension. Maul grips her arm firmly, his gloved fingers pressing just hard enough to maintain control without causing pain. "Walk," he commands, his voice low and flat. "You will not resist. You will not draw attention."

Shmi stumbles forward, her bare feet numb against the cold duracrete. She can feel the compulsion loosening, the dark side's grip on her mind fraying as Maul's focus shifts to navigating the platform's maze of shipping containers and maintenance tunnels.

"You're going to leave me here," she says, her voice hoarse from disuse. It isn't a question.

Maul doesn't answer immediately. He guides her behind a stack of rusted cargo pods, checking the shadows for any signs of surveillance. "You will be found," he says finally. "That is the purpose. We are back on Coruscant."

"Found by whom?" Shmi's eyes search his face, but find only cold yellowness beneath the tattoos. "Why would you want me found by the Jedi?"

Maul doesn't answer her. He just leads her further into the labyrinth of containers, his movements precise and economical. The Sith Inquisitor is careful not to say too much or let her see his face. The maze of shipping containers stretches endlessly in every direction, creating narrow corridors where Coruscant's ambient noise fades to a muffled hum. Maul guides Shmi toward a maintenance tunnel entrance marked with faded Republic safety symbols. The compulsion on her mind is nearly gone now, replaced by the sharp clarity of fear and confusion.

The tunnel entrance is a rusted hatch half-buried under a collapsed conveyor belt. Maul releases her arm and steps back, his yellow eyes scanning the upper platforms for any movement. "You will wait here," he instructs. "Do not leave this spot. A patrol will pass within the hour."

Shmi sways, her body trembling from the sudden absence of the compulsion's artificial support. "And then what? I tell them I wandered away?" She looked at him for an answer, but he had vanished.

The patrol arrives exactly fifty-three minutes later—two Coruscant Security Force officers on a routine sweep of the sector. Their repulsorlift speeder catches the pale shape of a woman curled against a coolant pipe.

"Hey," the older officer calls, dismounting. "You all right down there?"

Shmi blinks into the light, her mind scrambling to assemble a story from the fragments Maul left behind. "I… I need help, I'd been kidnapped."

   Scimitar - Leaving Coruscant 

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The Scimitar's bridge is dim, the control panels casting faint amber light across Darth Maul's face. Darth Maul's yellow eyes fix on the holographic display as it resolves into the familiar hooded figure. The metallic voice rasps through the transmission, distorted by distance but carrying the same cold authority as before. "The woman has been delivered," Maul reports, his tone flat and precise. "She should have been found by now. The Jedi will respond as anticipated."

The Sith Lord's gloved hands shift slightly in the hologram, though his face remains hidden in shadow. "You have performed adequately, Inquisitor. The pieces move exactly as planned." A pause stretches between them, filled only by the faint hum of the Scimitar's engines. "But the game has entered a new phase. The Jedi are reacting to our provocations as expected. Their attention is divided."

Darth Maul kneels before the holographic display, his tattooed face illuminated by the blue glow. "What are your orders, Master?"

The Sith Lord's voice emerges from the transmission like grinding metal. "Go to Naboo. The Trade Federation's provocation has created the chaos we require. The Jedi on the planet are already compromised—their focus split between defending civilians and protecting the boy."

Maul's fingers tighten slightly against the deck plating. "You want me to eliminate them?"

"I want you to do what our Master requires, Inquisitor," the Unnamed Sith Lord says and the hologram vanishes.

There is a structure to the Sith Darth Maul has never been taught, only lived inside. A chain of command without face or voice at its highest link—only pressure, only consequence. His master speaks, and Maul obeys; yet even his master speaks as though answering something beyond himself, something that never enters the room, never leaves a trace behind. Maul has learned not to question the shape of that absence.