A/N: cringes Yes, I know, it's been a sinfully long time since I've updated this story… heck, I'll be lucky if there's anybody out there who still remembers it! Unfortunately, I've had a really busy spring semester—18 credit hours, yuck—and there just hasn't been too much inspiration on this story in quite some time. But—spring break works wonders! This isn't a very long chapter, I guess, but hopefully it will tide you all over until I can type up some more. Again, my apologies for being so terribly slow to continue this story. Let me know what you think (even if you think I'm a jerk for dragging my feet for months…).
All thirteen hours of sleep had deserted her. Padmé slumped back in the seat of the pilot's chair and drew a weary hand across her furrowed forehead. She'd tried, but of course it was no use—this yacht didn't have any impressive secret communication suites like those at Silya's house, so she could not connect with Obi-Wan or Bail's secret line. And she was now too far from Alderaan to have a prayer of connecting with the planet through normal channels, though she could hardly believe that she had dared to try something so dangerous. Neither did she have time to turn back and prevail upon Bail to send somebody in her stead to Fresia—the window of time that their contacts had given was steadily slipping away.
If she didn't go, the prototype fighters were lost to the Rebellion, and possibly the war too.
She set her mouth grimly. If they lost the war, she lost all hope for herself…and her children.
She had no choice. She had to press on to Fresia, Luke or no Luke. She glanced at him, where he curled shamefaced in the co-pilot's chair.
No Luke…
Her stomach twisted sickeningly at the thought of placing her son in danger. Stars, what had she done?
Nothing! a furious voice shouted in her head. You didn't do anything! She rubbed her temples, suppressed a groan. She'd not have been forced into such a position if Luke had only stayed where she'd put him…if Obi-Wan had…had…oh, she didn't know what he should have done, but he was supposed to know more about this than her, wasn't he? A fine place his Jedi prescience had gotten them into!
Sternly she batted away the thoughts. What had happened, had happened, and there was no point whining about it. She was wasting time that could be spent more profitably on other things.
Such as disciplining her son.
She turned her tired gaze onto him, completely at a loss as to the appropriate parental response to a stowaway six-year-old. Force knew she'd never given her parents any reason to demonstrate it! Should she send him to his cabin and tell him to stay there?
Oh, yes, remarked the voice rather snidely, that worked so well before!
Luke hunched a little tighter, and didn't dare look up at her. With a rush of frustration Padmé suppressed the irritated voice in her. Though he might not have heard her specific thoughts, he could clearly sense the direction of her mood at present.
Suddenly her anger and fear softened. Obviously, this was not the result Luke had hoped for when he'd snuck back aboard the yacht. Gently she reached out and ran a hand through his hair. "Oh, Luke," she sighed.
Anakin would have been so much better with him, she thought despairingly. He had always been so good with children. A ghostly image of the garden in her parents' home misted into being before her eyes—Anakin, playing with Ryoo and Pooja. Anakin would have understood Luke so much better than she did.
Luke finally dared glance up. "Don' be sad," he muttered. "I don' wanna make you sad."
She pulled her hand back, regarding him. Anakin…would have done exactly what Luke had just done. So…should she do what Obi-Wan would do?
It was the best plan of action she'd come up with so far. So she went with it.
"Why didn't you do what I asked, then?"
He quickly ducked back down. "I wanna come with you," he mumbled. "Ben says you're 'posed to take care of me now."
"When I sent you with Obi-Wan, I was taking care of you," she said a bit more severely. "Fresia isn't a very good place for you to be."
"Then how come it's okay for you to go?" Luke muttered, rather sullenly.
"Because I'm an adult," she said sternly. "When I tell you to do things like that, Luke, it's because I'm trying to keep you as safe as I can."
Fright suddenly bloomed in his expression. "Am I gonna die?" he asked anxiously.
Her effort to imitate Obi-Wan promptly collapsed; she gave an inward sigh of defeat. Nothing could withstand those big blue eyes, she was sure of it. "No, sweetheart," she quickly assured him. "I'll take care of you."
Luke was very subdued for the remainder of the jump to Fre'ji. He clearly harbored no illusions about how much trouble he was in, however little his mother might be able to do about it now. She had informed him that, when they returned from Fre'ji, he could expect to be disciplined properly then, and (once she explained just what the word "discipline" meant) the effect of that threat on him had been quite impressive, if she did say so herself.
And she certainly intended to follow through on the threat. Even if she was going to have to consult with Obi-Wan on what, exactly, proper discipline in such a case was.
By way of proving that intention to him, she had sent him firmly to his room after they had both eaten something. Luke hadn't protested, not even when she added that he was not to come out to watch the reversion from hyperspace.
It was, she reflected a bit grimly, as well that she'd had the excuse to confine him to his room for that part of the journey. She did not really want Luke to witness the scene that was probably going to ensue once system security sensors got a whiff of her. Which, she reflected, was doubtless going to happen right…about…now.
The wild whirl of hyperspace straightened, stiffened, and then the streaks of light shrank back into pinpricks as her normal-space sensor arrays came online. Padmé spared a reflexive glance for her scanner displays—
Her spine went stiff as a large triangular shape appeared in the display, a shape that reminded her of nothing so much as the floating snout of a pseudo-gator.
A most un-diplomatic curse flashed through her mind for an instant. Bail's information had said there were no Star Destroyers in Fre'ji. Either he had been wrong, or matters had evolved since then.
This had just gotten much, much more interesting.
The com crackled to life. Padmé quickly rehearsed her story as the Imperial officer on the other end began speaking.
"Unidentified ship, this is His Majesty's Star Destroyer Tyranny. Please transmit your identification and reason for system entry," Second Lieutenant Firmus Piett said into his com receiver, rubbing the back of his hand across his forehead. That blasted biosensor warning flashing on the side of his console display was playing havoc with his bloodshot eyes. The biosensors had been complaining about his alertness stats for hours now, and the captain's manual override was the only reason Piett hadn't already been locked out of his console. The Devaronian flu epidemic was still going strong in the communications barracks—although Major Tbron had begun to mend, Piett remained the only communications officer fit for duty.
In other circumstances, Kale would have implemented the standard emergency schedule, switching to half-shifts and alternating Piett with senior officers who had some communications experience. Unfortunately, the Tyranny was on Grade-A system security detail, which meant that all the senior officers who might have otherwise have shared communications duty were swamped with maintaining their own sectors on high alert. Besides, Grade-A stipulations mandated the constant presence of a fully trained com officer on the bridge at all times.
Because, after all, you never knew when a random ship might happen to pop out of hyperspace. Like this one.
"This is the privately owned yacht Sand Angel," a static-distorted voice replied. Piett thought it might be female, but he couldn't be sure. His senses weren't working so well after thirty hours without sleep, and those stim tabs didn't do much for his hearing. "We are registered to this system. We are bound for the planet."
Eh. Another rich Incom executive coming back home and getting tripped up by the increased security. Piett had handled more than one of these arrivals since the Tyranny had arrived in Fre'ji. He glanced over at the ensign at the console beside him, who was in charge of validating the yacht's ID. The ensign shrugged, yawning. "Reception's crap, sir," he muttered. "Must be some bad emission interference."
Piett switched his pickup to mute and glowered at the ensign. "Ensign, I don't give a womp rat's backside what the reception is like," he barked. "Does the ID check out or not?"
The ensign wisely did not make any further wise cracks and ran the analysis. He repressed a glower when the results came up. Seventy-five percent validation match—that was on par with normal acceptance standards, but it was five points below the requirements for Grade-A security standards…but it was so close, and he really didn't want to go to all the bother of deploying the confirmation probes. His shift was almost finished, and if he had to deploy the probes and then recover them, he'd run a whole hour over—and he'd have to write up the report and fill out the forms to justify having deployed the damned things. And with the numbers this close, Supply would be on his case for putting the expensive wear and tear on his equipment—especially when it was probably just a screwed-up engine exhaust valve or something equally stupid.
"Yes, sir, it checks," he announced smartly.
Was this what it was like to be a Jedi? Padmé could feel the silence, physically feel it—it seemed to crawl up into her body through the tips of her fingers, slide in through her straining ears. Her mind's eye envisioned the black threat of it seeping out through the cockpit hatch, crawling towards Luke's cabin.
If every brush with danger had made Anakin feel something like this, perhaps it wasn't quite so surprising it had finally gotten to him. The thought that this ship—and Luke—could be blown out of space if the officer on the Destroyer had a nasty case of indigestion…the idea of her little boy being thrown into a cold detention cell, at the mercy of abusive troopers…
I shouldn't have come…I should have turned around as soon as I found him, I shouldn't have come…
The com crackled. "Sand Angel, you are confirmed for system entry. Be advised that the system is under high security. Stand by for transmission of authorized planetary approach vector. Any deviation from the approved vector will result in use of force."
It was all she could do to keep her voice from shaking with relief as she answered, "Understood, Tyranny," she answered. A chime blinked on her command console. "Approach vector received. Commencing course alteration."
"Course alteration confirmed, Sand Angel," the thoroughly bored voice on the other end said. "Welcome to Fre'ji." The com went silent.
Padmé signed off, plugged the directions into the navicomp, switched the controls to autopilot, and slumped back in her seat with her head in her hands.
A few minutes later, a small, very hesitant voice situated somewhere behind her whispered, "Mommy?"
She whirled the chair around, fully intending to scold him soundly for coming out of his room after she'd told him to stay put and how dare he disobey her again—
Her sharp anger, she knew, was more than a little due to the nerve-racking crucible she had just endured, but it melted in an instant at the frightened look on his small face. The after-echoes of her horrible fear for him stabbed back through her tenfold, and without a second thought, she vaulted out of her chair and swept him up in a tight hug. His six-year-old frame was no weight at all. Luke didn't object to the sudden closeness—quite the contrary, he burrowed his face into her shoulder and wrapped his short legs monkey-like around her.
After a few seconds she settled back down into the pilot's chair and swiveled it so that both of them could see Fresia swelling in the viewport. Predictably, she felt Luke turn his head so as to take the sight in. It seemed no amount of trauma could detract from his fascination with space. She shifted him into her lap and wrapped both arms around him, settling her chin on his head with a soft sigh. "Are you all right?" she asked him.
"You were really scared," Luke muttered.
She leaned back a little and ran her hand through his hair. "I thought something might be wrong for a second or two," she told him lightly. "But everything was all right. Did I scare you?"
"Nuh-uh," Luke said stubbornly, shaking his head for extra emphasis. "Jus' hadda make sure you were okay." Padmé smiled wryly as Luke—apparently realizing his current position perched in his mother's lap might be compromising his manly reputation—squirmed away and crawled up into the co-pilot's seat. He eyed the controls wistfully, and gave her a hopeful glance, but she shook her head sternly. All the adorable blue puppy-eyes in the galaxy weren't going to convince her to let a six-year-old copilot a ship.
Vader swept out of the turbolift into Tyranny's main hanger with a swirl of robes and a solid sense of satisfaction. His time aboard Kale's command had been brief, but quite productive, if the mood of the cluster of officers ahead of him was any indication. He reached out with a focused tendril of dark power and sampled with relish their anxiety, their dread of failure, and their dread of him. Most satisfactory. Between the increased motivation he had…inspired in them, and Kale's own maniacal need to prove his competence to his superiors, he felt sure he need have no fear of complacency here.
It was therefore time he returned to the main body of the Fleet. However much he'd enjoyed watching Kale squirm. Well. All good things must come to an end.
"Your shuttle is prepared, my lord," the aforementioned despised captain informed him as he scrambled along obsequiously at Vader's side.
"It is well for your sake that that is the case," Vader boomed, anything but impressed. As if the proper performance of duty was something to be applauded. They reached the assembled farewell party waiting by the foot of the shuttle's landing ramp. Due to the epidemic of Devaronian flu, the party was missing a communications officer, and Kale's chagrin over the fact was nothing short of delightful. In fact, Vader had been savoring the captain's dismay over his decimated communications duty roster for the entirety of his stay on Tyranny. A pity he had to leave it. It created an ideal climate for Sith meditation.
"It was an honor to have you on board, my lord," the exec spoke up nervously, with a respectful nod of the head. Vader returned it neutrally. His distaste for Kale did not extend to the rest of the crew, which—according to the naval performance evaluations and his own observations—performed most admirably. A stray thought alighted on the beleaguered junior com officer, who had been on duty constantly since Vader's arrival. Piett's performance had been excellent, despite adverse circumstances. He would order one of his personal assistants to make a note of the name.
Without another glance or word for Kale, Vader stalked up the ramp of his shuttle. The ramp sealed behind him promptly as Kale keyed his wrist com on with a sour expression. "Communications, Lord Vader's shuttle departing," he snapped.
On the bridge, Lieutenant Piett cut his bloodshot gaze to the ceiling and gave a soft, infinitely grateful sigh.
They were at their closest point of approach to the Star Destroyer, and Padmé had a very cautious eye on the nav readouts while Luke, standing up in his chair, stared raptly out the viewport, chattering excitedly about the enormous ship. "Mommy, lookit, lookit all the—"
"Luke, I need you to sit down," she coaxed. "You're going to fall."
"I'm not gonna fall, Mommy," he said with absentminded confidence.
She rubbed her forehead with one hand. The thing was, he probably was right. Anakin's sense of balance had been nothing short of superhuman. Jedi. "It would make me feel better if you would sit down," she tried, without much hope that he would see reason the second time around.
Luke barely even heard her, so caught up was he in his exhilaration over the ship. "Wow, lookit the engines, they're so huge—"
The crackling of the com speaker distracted her from her parenting dilemma. "Sand Angel, stand by for tractor beam acquisition," the voice on the other end ordered.
Padmé's stomach plummeted out of place. Her head snapped around, made fast with fear. "Luke, sit down!"
Had she been less frightened, she might have been surprised when he dropped immediately into his seat and scrabbled for the crash webbing. Shakily Padmé keyed her end of the com on. "Affirmative, Tyranny," she heard her voice say with absurd steadiness. "Is there a problem?"
"Sand Angel, please cease all com traffic," the Imperial ordered without answering. "Deactivate engines and sensors."
If she didn't comply, she'd be shot out of space here and now. She had no choice. "Affirmative, Tyranny," she said, and began killing her systems.
"Mommy, what's wrong?" Luke asked shakily. She could see the fear building in his eyes—but what could she say to calm him down when she was so frightened herself?
His shuttle had only been underway for five minutes when Vader felt a bizarre ripple in the Force. Curious, he reached towards the source of it—it was so…strangely familiar… There was fear, he could sense fear—but the signature of it was faint, undeveloped, too small for it to be an adult, and so it could not be anyone aboard the Star Destroyer.
He strode briskly into the cockpit, ignoring the fearful expression on his pilot's face, and surveyed the scanner readouts. There was a small yacht bearing about 3-2-12 to their position. "Where is that yacht going?" he demanded of the pilot.
The man jumped and keyed on his com. "Communications, request ID and destination of unidentified ship?"
There was a brief pause before Piett answered from Tyranny. "Privately owned vessel Sand Angel, locally registered, bound planetside," the lieutenant answered in a crisp voice that betrayed none of the exhaustion the young man undoubtedly felt. Vader's estimation of him would have risen another notch had his attention not been focused on that strange flicker in the Force. "Sensor One reports ID confirmation."
Vader listened to the lieutenant's report distantly, his mind trying to follow that elusive beacon of fear and discern something more about its origin. It could be a Force-sensitive child, but the sensation was so faint, so undefined, that it could be merely the result of intense fear from a non-Force-sensitive.
If it would just get a little stronger…
With a wrenching effort, Padmé forced her fear for Luke deep into the recesses of her mind and focused on calming her son. "Nothing's wrong, Luke," she said firmly. "They've just pulled us aside for a moment. There might be another ship leaving. It just took me by surprise for a moment, that's all. There's nothing wrong."
She smiled, not too brightly, because if she overdid it, Luke would know something was wrong. And for his sake, there must not be anything wrong. She could not let him know what she was thinking all the time. She couldn't let him deal with both their burdens. Besides, it was entirely possible that nothing was wrong.
"Oh," Luke said, relaxing all of a sudden and settling back into his seat. "Okay."
She felt a reserved tingle of triumph as he added optimistically, "I can see the ship real good from here."
For a moment Vader began to consider ordering Tyranny to tractor to civilian ship aboard for inspection—but the odd little sensation in the Force wavered treacherously and then died out altogether.
He thought about it for another moment, and then stalked out of the cabin. "Proceed, Lieutenant," he ordered the pilot over his shoulder. His knowledge of the vagaries of the Force was far from comprehensive, and so trifling a phenomenon was not worth throwing an entire Fleet schedule out of synch. It certainly was no threat to the monolithic New Order he'd sacrificed so much to institute—an Order that required his presence to function smoothly.
They vanished into hyperspace a few minutes later.
Padmé was beginning to feel the strain of containing her raging emotions and maintaining an unconcerned pose. The knowledge that she was succeeding could only sustain her so far, after all—
"Sand Angel, you may resume your course heading," the indifferent Imperial voice suddenly announced into the backbreaking silence. "Be reminded that any deviations from the approved approach vector will result in use of force. Normal communications may be resumed."
She could not stop her hand from shaking a little bit with relief as she pressed the com key. "Affirmative, Tyranny," she breathed out.
"We're gonna go now?" Luke asked. She nodded. His expression fell. "Aw, man," he said plaintively. "I wanted to look at the ship more."
