It takes Shmi three days to get to the nearest space port. She spends the first day walking, even through the mid day heat, desperate to get as far away as possible. She doesn't dare contact anyone or ask for shelter. She does not want to put her friends in danger. A slave caught harboring a runaway would risk a whipping at the very least, or possibly have parts cut off. The later a more common punishment, as a slave could still do physical labor missing an ear or a nose or even a finger or two. Less so with lashes up and down their back. Many times though, the wounds become infected in the desert heat, with no water to spare to keep them clean, and the person dies. She will not risk that.
She can feel the tracker buried in her shoulder still. Even with it disabled, Gardulla could still send out people to hunt her down. Even if they assume her dead, wandered or attempted escape out of her range, they'd want her body for confirmation. She wouldn't be the first slave to try and run after all.
She'd grabbed a cloak one of the Weequay body guards had left lying around before leaving and wrapped it around herself. It's stained, but serviceable. She doesn't remove it, even when the sweat plasters her hair to her forehead.
She survives those first days on food she'd taken from Gardulla's garden. On vegetables and roots and dried strips of meat she'd bartered for at a market just a few days earlier.
The closer she gets to port the stronger her son's old desires flare up in her.
She can feel Anakin's memories well up, his want, his need, to fly, to get away from this planet. To see all the stars and every system imaginable! She tamps the desire down. She will not steal a ship. Testing her son's skills, the half remembered reflexes that now course through her own bones, will have to wait. She remembers his infamous crashes all too well. Remembers the Other, the one in her visions. Her Master Anakin's Jedi Master, teasing him with an exasperated look. Remembers the unexpected Padawan that had come later, that will come, rolling her eyes at the pair as they bickered and teased.
She feels the Spark that is Anakin giggling inside her. He likes those memories.
But no. It will simply be easier to sneak aboard a ship this time, to trust her escape to another pilot. Easier not to deal with the trouble and security forces a stolen ship might bring.
She lurks in the hanger bay, listening to technicians calling out to one another, to the clang of metal and the hiss of a soldering tool. It calms both her and Anakin.
She waits, standing in the shadows, ignored by the beings around her, one small woman, silent and still in the organized chaos of work and repairs, and closes her eyes. She tentatively reaches out with her senses, feels the current of the Force as it flows through the hanger bay. She lets it guide her.
She ends up in front of a medium sized freighter, beige and fairly well cared for it seems on first glace. Droids are the only things she senses moving in and out of the ship. Yes. This will do. There are enough boxes of goods in the hold to conceal her should anyone come looking, and yet enough space that she will not be cramped. She slips in and kneels behind a box of machine parts, letting the tension in her shoulders relax.
The first step in this journey is done.
There will be many more steps to take before she finds this journey's end though. This she knows.
She settles into a doze at some point, exhaust from travel and fear of being found catching up to her, but wakes with a start as the ship hums to life. She folds her hands around her abdomen, wrapping the tattered cloak closer around herself, ignoring the smell of smoke on it, and tries not to flinch as she feels the thrum of the engine buzz to life beneath her.
I trust you my son she thinks and closes her eyes as the ship takes off. She knows the tracker is off, she does. Her heart simply does not believe that it can be this easy.
The ship rises and she feels the gentle climb it makes, bringing her closer to the upper atmosphere. Closer to either madness or freedom. She clenches her eyes shut as she ship speeds up, bracing herself.
Nothing happens. Her tracker doesn't explode. The crew don't burst into the hold, demanding her return to Gardulla and claiming of their reward.
She's free.
Shmi opens her eyes and can't stop the laughter that bubbles up from within. Free. She never imagined- didn't dare dream-
she pauses, the laughter drying up. This means what she saw was Real. It wasn't a fluke or luck that let her deactivate her tracker. It was the Force. The Universe realigning itself perhaps.
That means that all she saw (all that was? That will be?) might still happen. The War, the Empire, her Ani's marriage, her grandchildren…her, no, the Other, his Master dying in his arms, his love that might have been stabbed and dying in his arms too. The fighting, the meditations with the Grand Master, the Council seat, so many events rush past, seared into her mind. Entire lives, all three of theirs, smearing together.
All the good times and the bad...will it still come to be? Is it destined to happen? Or has she already changed things? What if her escape, her freedom, changes things beyond recognition? What will they do?
She feels her chest tighten, and her breath grow short as the magnitude of her actions finally hit her.
There isn't enough air. She tries to suck it in faster but feels the fear crawl up her throat and tighten its hands like she remembers seeing- doing to countless other beings and how horrible it is and she's shaking now, hands clammy and trembling. She's losing herself in remembrance of the Dark Times, the choked gasping sensation before the respirator the Master gave. The smell of burning, itching, peeling flesh and she sits in a life support pod trying to force aching lungs to work against the odds and- and-
Another memory is shoved forward.
She remembers the man who came (would have come?) to Tatooine. His long graying hair and noble features. Remembers words she's never heard him speak, words spoken to the Other in the Vision: "be mindful of the future, but not at the expense of the moment, young Padawan. Trust your instincts."
She concentrates on that voice and shoves her hands under her arms to fight both the trembling and the chill.
Live in the moment she repeats to herself mentally, breath growing longer on each repetition until she can draw the air in deeply again.
Overwhelmed, she curls up tighter between the boxes and tries to concentrate of her immediate surroundings. She smell of recycled air sucked into still greedy lungs, the rough texture of the crates against the line of her back and side. She lets one hand follow along the box until she feels the beginning of nails used to keep it shut. She picks at one, wanting something to fiddle with in her hands. An old habit of Anakin's. One she'd have to be careful not to pick up permanently.
She wiggles the nail enough to release it, and falls asleep soon after, soothed by the repetitive motion of the metal twisting around her hand. A hand that is reassuringly flesh and bone.