Chapter Three

The Pursed, Painted Lips of Queen Rozwir


It is with a sardonic smirk that Boba Fett sidles through the Senate antechamber, his sharp eyes scanning the many faces for sign of the Organa father and daughter. His employer has stipulated that he discard his Mandalorian armour for the job, that Fett leave his features unmasked for all the Imperial surveillance to see. He pauses before a camera above the exit to the North Wing and mugs, squinting at the red "record" light. He has been given license to be cocky.

Everyone present recognizes him, but the familiarity is perfectly fine with Fett.

His face belongs to millions. In this mere hall, containing perhaps five hundred humans and bipedals—an infinitesimal fraction of the galaxy's population—there are no less the seven beings that share his exact genetic make up. They are clones—all in varying stages of age and decay—and it lends him a camouflage no Mandalorian T-visor could provide. The galaxy has learned to turn away from these features: the broad, flat nose; the black, arched brows; the rough, olive complexion. This is the face of war and it renders him invisible.

A swarthy, elegantly-dressed man dances into Fett's peripheral vision. The bounty hunter stiffens: Organa and his senatorial entourage. But the Princess is not apparent.

He mutters into his comm. "Negative visual on the target."

"She's there—at your eight o'clock," returns his accomplice. The voice is that of a woman's. Their eyes meet accidentally across the hall.

"Copy," he says slowly, casually turning his back to his accomplice.

Seemingly consulting his chronometer, his eyes dart up slyly in the direction he was told to look. His accomplice spoke the truth. Leia Organa—a small girl of nine—hangs back a fair distance from her father, in the company of a brass protocol droid and a smaller astromech. Fett can only identify two bodyguards flanking Alderaan's Senator. He frowns.

"I don't like it. This operation is going down hitch-less. They're on to us."

"Cut the chatter and count your blessings. Move in as we planned. I'm leaving for the rendezvous point now. "

"Copy," he says again, the affirmative much terser.

Fett tucks the comm away and squares his shoulders, watching the lights above the nearby turbolift doors count downwards. Once those filing out of the lift swell the throng, Fett can easily make the grab. Mornings in the Senate are especially crowded. Even the bodyguards will be distracted by the jostle, and before the surge of bodies recedes Fett will be long gone with her.

At the chime of the lift doors opening Fett moves in.

The disjointed cacophony of conversation increases with the influx of persons. Fett shoves his way forward, losing sight of the Princess for one crucial moment. Reaching for her blindly, Fett finds himself clutching air. He whirls about as the crowd thins. There's Bail up ahead, oblivious, followed by the aides, the bodyguards, and the tottering, brass protocol droid. Fett looks about wildly. The chattering crowd does not notice his disquiet. How could a child have vanished in seconds?

Fett thinks frantically back over the freshly past moments, recalling the astromech wheeling along at the Princess's side. It had been an R2 unit, with blue markings. He surveys the antechamber, spotting three droids that match his vague recollection. Swiftly, he moves towards the first and second units, in short time eliminating them as leads. Despair threatens evolution to panic as Fett discovers the third belonging to the Senator of Xjan.

But then he sees a fourth, rolling out of sight, down the hall of red carpet and tall pillars that stretches magnificently to the Senate flight stations. He charges after the droid, breaking into a sprint at the sight of the young Princess. A rucksack slung over her shoulder, she races pell-mell towards the idling star ships.

Strangely, Fett gets the impression that it is not he the child is running from.

The blue R2 unit stops and swivels, training its photoreceptor on the bounty hunter. Heatedly, it issues a long stream of incensed blips and beeps. It intends to impede Fett's way.

Fett raises and cocks his blaster with a sneer. "Bad move, Shorty."

Yet before Fett can pull the trigger, noxious vapours hiss serpentine-like out of the R2's vents. In a second Fett is enveloped in the cloud. Eyes burning, throat constricting, the bounty hunter hollers, bowing to his knees. The blaster is dropped with a clatter lost under his hacks and retches. Through the dimness of his vision and the thickness of the smokescreen, Fett sees the stocky outline of the droid roll away, contended. Victorious.


It is a grey morning in Theed. Rainy mists have risen from the city river and now drift along its quiet meanders, pervading the cobblestone alleyways and central squares with a wet, wispy chill. Water beads on every surface, drips down along branches; stone women shed tears. All things swathed in pearly gauze, it is as if this world has been overlaid with the transparent traces of the next: the afterlife where silver-lined souls float freely down Memorial Boulevard and wreathe about Vader's form for sheer torment.

"It used to be called Shalla'grilum Way, but it was renamed ten years ago," Major Typho tells Vader and Piett pointlessly, glancing at his two passengers in the rear-view-mirror.

They have forgone traveling in a convoy to the palace, ignoring protocol for favour of secrecy. As ordered, Major Typho, head of the palace security, met his classified passengers in a secluded hanger-bay of Theed Spaceport. Not briefed in the situation, Typho's eyebrows had shot upwards under his cap's visor at the sight of Lord Vader sweeping down the shuttle ramp, meek and cowering Piett at his heels. Typho is a black man whose kinky, clipped hair has become hoary in the ten years since Amidala died and Typho found himself out of a bodyguarding job.

Their current transport is nothing more than a boxy, black utility speeder, the rear windows tinted indigo to the extreme of opaqueness. It coasts smoothly down the main thoroughfare of the Nubian Capital, taking the most direct route to the palace.

"What's the boulevard in memorial of, Major?" Piett asks.

Vader glares at Piett. What infuriates him more than small talk are those who encourage it.

"The Federation Invasion and our victory over them. Shoot. To think, that was twenty-odd years ago!"

"Time flies," Piett supplies inanely.

Vader says nothing to voice his chagrin. He is oddly mellowed by the familiar skyline of tarnished copper rotundas and stark, elegant spires. He lets the novelty of casual conversation wash over him.

"No kidding. Take for instance Queen Apailana's assassination. That's two-year-old news and I remember it like it happened last week."

Piett rubs his chin thoughtfully. "That story really wasn't covered galacticaly. What happened again?"

"She was giving some Jedi refuge. 501st Legion rubbed her out." Typho glances at Vader. "Justly of course. Apailana was a fool to think she could shelter war criminals and not face repercussions."

"I'm so glad the Empire has your approval, Major Typho," says Vader dryly, emerging from his stony silence. "Now, the present monarch, Queen Rozwir—she succeeded Apailana directly after her death, no?"

"That is correct, My Lord."

Piett leans forward, sensing Vader's wish to turn the conversation professional, and eager to assist. "And how does Queen Rozwir rank as a leader?"

Typho gives a strange, little laugh. "There are two schools of thought when it comes to Rozwir. Cynics claim she got the throne coasting on her looks and family name. I, however, belong to the second group of folk that believes she's the brightest, bravest young woman Naboo has to offer and it's just a coincidence she happen to be Amidala's niece."

"Yes, a coincidence," says Piett bemusedly, prematurely slotting himself with the group that believes the former. He looks earnestly to Vader. "Did you know that, Sir?"

Vader cringes. Yes, of course he does. He read it in the database files. Rozwir is the eldest daughter of his sister-in-law (technically, he supposes) Sola. Ryoo, as she was then known, had struck him as a seven-year-old going on thirty-seven. How her lips had pursed with the belittling scorn of a schoolteacher's at Anakin trusted ice-breaker: making the dinner fruit revolve about the table's centrepiece.

At present, it is across the marble-topped desk of Her Royal Majesty's throne room, not the Nanberrie kitchen table, that a fully-grown, adult-sized Queen Rozwir glares at him. Like Amidala before her, her sharp features are suited to the alabaster make-up of a Nubian Queen, though this is where the family similarities end. He can not imagine Rozwir's black, beady eyes soften as Padmé's did, nor her mouth being anything but a hard, pressed line.

Rozwir acknowledges his entrance not with a rise and bow, but with a slight, imperious inclination of her head. She sparkles even in the grey, dull light of this damp morning. Her hair is hidden within an elaborate, gilded headpiece. Hooked into her earlobes are startlingly long earrings that fall in a thick splay of gold. From her sleeves drapes enough fabric to sew another lady a peasant skirt. The effect would be mesmerizing if he had not seen it before on a more beautiful monarch.

Vader stands in the middle of the great, echoing marble chamber. Rozwir's small court has assembled behind him. Piett hangs back with them, in the shadow of support pillars, making eyes at a stony, unreceptive handmaiden.

Typho bows towards Rozwir and introduces Vader formally. "Your Majesty, may I present Lord Darth Vader of the Sith, here as an envoy of the Emperor."

Rozwir is moved to speak. Her voice is deep, detached. "You have graced us with your presence most unexpectedly. I first learned of your impending arrival no more than an hour ago, Lord Vader."

"The nature of my business here demanded the precaution of that discourtesy. I felt it would be preferable if as few persons as possible were aware of my being here."

"And what is your business here?" she asks grimly. Vader notes the white talons that are her fingernails dig into the armrest of her throne. "I hope not for the same reason the last time the Empire made it military force felt here. Unlike my predecessor, I was hoping to reach middle age."

Beneath the decoration of her costume, and the blankness of her expression, Vader can tell he terrifies her. Eyes lie, for he sees the stillness of her form, but through the Force senses the tumult of her fears; and he knows all is not well on Naboo.

"Rogue Jedi, of course," Vader lies.

Rozwir's eyes flash darkly. She knows he is toying with her.

He paces forward, his heels clicking on the polished floor, coming to stand directly before her desk.

"Why don't you tell me why I am really here, Your Majesty," Vader says quietly. Likely, only the Queen can hear his words.

Here is the first glimpse of a scared young woman beneath the regal demeanour: her eyes break connection with his.

"I would assume for the same reason the Emperor called my Ambassador before him—the alleged Rebel traffic over Naboo."

"That is indeed partially the reason," Vader agrees, drawing himself to his full height. In less than a whisper, he continues, "But we shall discuss this privately, without the presence of your court."

"I do not think that is a very good idea," she tells him shortly.

"I do," he says, turning around to face Rozwir's court—the handmaidens, the local governors, the palace guards—residing morosely in the shadows of the pillars. There is no eagerness to please in this semi-circle gathering of Nubians. With apprehension and muted defiance they regard him, convinced Vader is here to kill Rozwir, just as his 501st legion killed Apailana two years ago. Officially, Naboo proudly bows before Vader's Emperor, but unofficially their Queen shall have their undying loyalty and Vader would be a fool to bully her further.

He needs Rozwir's trust if he is to ever accomplish anything here. To push her by the brute threat of star destroyer in orbit over Naboo would alienate her staff and send the slithering remnants of the Federation shrinking back into impossible obscurity. If Vader is to ever uncover this Neimoidian-Rebel axis, he must let them get comfortable—careless—on Naboo.

Addressing the court, Vader says loudly, "During our stay, myself and Major Piett (The officer stiffens abruptly, the sound of his name jarring him out of a trance) will need—and therefore have—access to all security footage taken in the past months. I will have unprejudiced access to any sort of intelligence I desire. I will have any required resource at my disposal. And, most importantly, I will have all your fullest cooperation. Isn't that right, your Majesty?"

Rozwir's inky eyes blink in rapid succession. "You shall have my permission before any of these things, Lord Vader. I am not certain I can condone a hijacking of my authority. This investigation of yours will be carried out only through my consultation and consent."

Before he can anger, Vader has to wonder why she is fighting him. She must know her audacity will bring the wrath of the Empire down upon her. Like ten thousand other star system, sheer, absolute terror has kept Naboo in line effortlessly these past ten years. The only explanation is that now Queen Rozwir has something greater to fear than even the Empire.

And then Vader understands. "They're watching you, aren't they?"

Rozwir's mouth parts, but she can say nothing.


At the buzz of her comm, Sabé smiles sheepishly at the person seated next to her.

"Excuse me. I have to take this."

She rises and weaves out from the row of seats into the centre aisle. Sabé ignores the persistent song emanating from her comm until she slips into the small, closet refresher nestled in the alcove between the passenger cabin and the starship's cockpit. Flicking on the oily, yellow lights, she makes a point to turn up the fan and run the faucet water. She does not trust the thickness of this refresher's walls. This conversation is to be private.

Thumbing the comm's pad, she brings the device to her ear.

"Talk to me."

She hears wheezing on the other end of the line. Her reflection in the mirror frowns.

"I lost her," coughs Fett. Sabé recognizes the bounty hunter's gravely voice.

"Hold on," Sabé murmurs, not bothering to feign surprise. "Where are you calling from?"

"Somewhere secure. Don't worry."

Sabé raises a brow petulantly. "I am worried. If you are not competent enough to grab a mere girl of nine, what's to say you haven't foolishly compromised my obscurity with this call."

"It wasn't my fault. Her R2-unit got in the way. It issued a toxic smokescreen."

"Apparently not toxic enough. You lived and you let her escape. More pressingly, you've raised my ire." Agitatedly, she smoothes her loose hair out of her eyes, fingering a few new strands of silver. Her thirties have not been kind to her.

"Give me a day or so to track her down. Like you said, she's only a kid. I'll get a hold of her. I swear."

"No," Sabé says abruptly. "We're through. Consider the matter closed."

"You need her," growls Fett. "And you need me. I can get her for you."

"That won't be necessary. I've already made alternative arrangements."

"But--"

Smoothly, she continues. "You've failed us, Fett. That's the bottom line. Don't try this number again." Sabé cuts the call and cracks the flimsy comm against the sink basin, discarding the remnants into the waste chute. She turns down the fan and turns off the tap, lingering a few extra seconds to criticize her reflection. Arranging her features rigidly into her previous smile, she steps out of the fresher and nods pleasantly at the passing stewardess.

"ETA?" Sabé asks.

"We'll reach Naboo in another hour or so, Ma'am."

"Excellent. Thank you."

Sabé returns to her seat beaming and, settling in to her former position, she looks at the young girl next to her and winks. "Now, where were we, Princess?"

Leia Organa returns the smile shyly. "You were asking me why I ran away."


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