Coming back to Coruscant again was like trying to take a breath of fresh air and inhaling carbon monoxide. Luke choked the moment he came out of hyperspace and had to sit himself down on the bed in his quarters, bent over double, breathing deeply into his knees until the heavy, desperate breaths that racked him stopped.
He squeezed his eyes shut and closed his eyes. His button was hanging open at the collar.
"Skywalker?" Mara rapped on the door, but had the grace not to enter, or even try to open it at all. "We've arrived. Our master summons us to report alongside Tarkin about Cymoon."
Luke grimaced and tried not to think about that—about all the ways that could've gone wrong.
The moment they'd left the system, Han had reported that Vilrein had seen him coming out of the slaves' quarters.
If she'd found the message. . .
If Leia had failed. . .
If Leia had been caught. . .
The very thought had him suddenly throwing himself to his knees in the corner of the room. He hunkered down and retched quietly, gagging on bile, but the thick, thick dread that hung around him in the Force didn't so much as lessen.
He felt ill.
But he pushed himself to his feet and stalked over to the door anyway. Mara raised a belligerent eyebrow when he opened it, then frowned. "You look ill."
"I am," he bit out, pushing past her. "We'll need to call a droid to clean up in there."
Mara wrinkled her nose. "If you insist. But the Emperor won't be kept waiting."
He never is. "I'm aware of that."
She frowned at him even further when he stepped out into the harsh bright light of the living room. "Did you sleep?"
He'd thrashed and screamed into his pillow for four nights straight. "Of course."
He was halfway to the door itself when she offered, "It's cold."
He paused.
Turned to face her.
"What?"
She turned her nose up at him and said, "It's cold on Coruscant at this time of year, in the area of the Imperial Palace; you ought to know that. If you're ill, should you really go out just wearing your uniform, without anything warmer?"
Luke grimaced, but the look in her eye said she wasn't about to let it go.
So he jogged back into his bedroom and grabbed. . .
The nearest cape he saw in his wardrobe.
Which was. . .
He ran his fingers over the constellations embroidered over the back before he tossed it round his shoulders and snuggled into it.
It reminded him of Leia.
It reminded him of home.
When he emerged he said, "What about you?"
"What?"
He huffed. "Are you just gonna wear that pseudo-Inquisitor's uniform? It's not that warm; I know it's not."
She scowled. "I am not ill."
"Doesn't mean you can't get cold."
She. . . paused, at that, and frowned at him again.
"I'm always cold," she said, and snapped her visor shut.
Mara had been right. It was cold on Coruscant.
Luke could feel it the moment the ramp of the shuttle lowered and everyone stood to attention, ready to depart. Tarkin was seated directly opposite him on the flight down; now he got to his feet stiffly and Luke scrambled to do it at the same time as him, his cloak snagging under his heel and catching at his throat, the chain constricting—
He fell back into his seat. His legs shook hard enough that it took several long seconds until he braced his hands on his knees and stilled them.
He could sense everyone's—Mara's, Han's, the troopers', Tarkin's—gazes on him. He flushed red.
Force, why was he so— so—
His hands were shaking now.
He always had to be so—
"Get up," Tarkin snapped, and Luke pushed himself to his feet.
Staggered a bit, but stayed upright.
A cold wind swept through the shuttle bay, chilling the sweat already on the back of his neck.
He tried to hang behind as everyone walked in, proud and strong and arrogance lining every inch of their stern postures—Mara and Han even shifted to let him, concern radiating from the latter, as they flanked him on the right and left. But Tarkin stopped to wait for him, and so did the rest of the delegation.
The stormtroopers. The death troopers. The aides Luke had replaced, and all the minor officers from the Sovereign II who needed to be on Coruscant for whatever reason.
They all stopped and stared at him, like a judgemental wall of black, white and grey.
Tarkin inclined his head and clicked his tongue. "Keep up," he ordered.
Luke forced his strides to be just a little longer, just a little faster, until he was at Tarkin's side in a heartbeat. He swallowed; the man was quite a bit taller than him, and he seemed to block out the sun.
"We—and the Emperor—have already received word from Cymoon One that the factory was destroyed by the Rebel attack," he told him. His voice was harsh, and Luke made sure to keep his gaze straight ahead, lest he aggravate the man more.
But. . .
"Destroyed?" he whispered, quietly enough that his ecstasy was hidden in the hush. Leia, Leia, Leia. . .
"Indeed," Tarkin ground out. "The factory is destroyed, and its latest produce either looted or destroyed with it. The elite forces and the Inquisitors we stationed there are all dead, as is Director Vilrein."
"Vilrein?"
"Yes—must I repeat everything I say? She died in the explosion."
Horribly, Luke's first instinct was relief. She would not live to tell someone what suspicions she'd had—what she'd found—
But, quickly on its heels, was shame. No; disgust.
She had been a person.
She had even been a good person—as far as good people in the Imperial system went, at least.
Joy was a disgusting thing to feel at her death.
What was wrong with him?
Tarkin continued, "This report will already be a humiliation and a. . . chastisement. Do not, boy, give him any more of a reason to punish us."
Luke nodded, gaze still fixed on the looming door into the Palace, like a gaping maw. "Understood, sir."
"I can't emphasise how important this is. My reputation, my leadership on countless Imperial projects—"
"I said I understood, sir," Luke growled.
Tarkin hit him.
Cuffed the back of his head, hard, enough that Mara and Han had already moved to defend Luke before they processed what was happening. He could feel their gazes boring a hole into his back.
Luke's head rang.
He felt sick again.
But Leia lives, he thought. It helped, somewhat; at least the crippling terror could recede, though the supernatural dread remained. Leia succeeded, and she lives. And if she has my message. . .
. . .she knows.
That thought calmed him more than anything.
"Your position is just as much at risk as mine," Tarkin hissed as they passed into the Palace proper, alcoves similar to the one Han had found him in a few weeks ago on either side. "Don't think that I don't know what happened—how you lost your hand. If His Majesty removes you from my care, it will only be to place you back into his, and if he suspects you of petty, stupid treason again, you know exactly what he will do."
Then Tarkin relaxed.
Patted him on the head, flattening his hair again into something approaching presentable. "Spinning this in as positive a way as possible is in both our interests."
Mara didn't flinch at the open threat to Luke. He supposed she wouldn't.
In Han, though, he could sense a growing curiosity—and odd sense of defensiveness.
Luke found it in him to smile faintly, even as he blinked back tears.
But then there was a bitter, freezing cold presence reaching for him and smiling was an impossibility it was difficult to even dream about.
Child, Palpatine purred against his shields. I'm so glad to see you again.
Likewise, Master, he found it in him to reply, but it tore him to pieces to say it. He knew that Palpatine could feel his fear—was revelling in it.
Mara was right, Luke thought absently, pulling his cape tighter around him. It was cold in the Palace.
Then they came to the throne room doors and they were admitted.
More of the delegation had split off by now—the death troopers to one place, the aides and officers to another, only two stormtroopers remaining as a part of Tarkin's escort, still and silent. Luke tried not to paid them any notice; they hung back anyway as they entered the room, as did Mara and Han, and it was only Tarkin and Luke who approached the dais and knelt.
His father stood at Palpatine's right hand. Luke knew his gaze was riveted on him.
He wondered what he saw.
Palpatine was silent for two hundred and thirty one seconds after the door boomed shut. Luke counted with his eyes closed, like that would make anything go away.
"My friend," Palpatine said at last, and Luke knew he was addressing Tarkin. "Rise."
Tarkin did. Luke stayed kneeling, head almost right to the floor, and listened to their conversation only to distract from the pain in his neck.
"I trust you with my most important projects," Palpatine said silkily, "and you fail."
Tarkin said nothing.
So, Luke mused. His political acumen extended to knowing who not to talk back to.
"Have you anything to say for yourself?"
Tarkin lifted his chin then, folded his hand behind his back, and reported: "I have sent you a report, Your Excellency, detailing the extensive security improvements we made to the factory, as well as the numerous troops—including three of your own Inquisitors—we left behind to assure the capture of the target, and the protection of the base. It is evident, however, that we underestimated her."
People always do underestimate the two of you, said a voice directly into Luke's head.
It was an extremely good thing Luke's face was turned entirely to the ground when he heard that.
"Clearly," Palpatine drawled. "But, Grand Moff Tarkin, I find myself concerned if any eighteen year old, no matter how unique, and her ragtag group of outlaws she calls allies can outsmart you. . ."
You look unwell, my son.
Luke gritted his teeth and couldn't resist the urge to shoot back— No kidding.
His father leapt on that contact, however, no matter how begrudging it may be. I understand you have suffered, so much, and I had no desire—
I'm sure you didn't, Luke snarled. His right hand tightened.
His father saw it. Luke. . .
What do you want?
A pause.
Nothing, son, came the deflated, de-motivated response. Luke, despite himself, was disappointed. Only. . .
Is there anything I can do?
Luke blinked in shock.
I am sorry about your sister. I am sorry about how I reacted. I am so, so sorry I handed you over to him.
Is there anything I can do?
Luke froze.
Paused.
Took several deep breaths.
Just tell me one thing, he said.
He sensed his father reaching for him eagerly. Yes? Anything—
Did you torture me?
There was a moment of utter silence.
Utter, stunned silence.
Out of the corner of his eye, Luke saw his father's head swivel to stare at Palpatine, draped on his throne.
No, finally came the reply, tight with anger, writhing with fury, with the need to— I. Did. Not.
Luke let out a breath.
Who, his father asked, told you that—
And then Palpatine's gaze was on Luke.
"Do not fail me, Tarkin," he warned. "I will give you one more chance to show that my special project is in good hands; I suggest you depart immediately to ensure that all is on schedule."
Tarkin said obsequiously, "Yes, Your Excellency."
"Now leave. "I wish to speak with young Luke."
Luke didn't look up despite the acknowledgement—his shoulders were in agony—but he could sense Tarkin's indignation.
He wanted to laugh.
"As you wish, Your Excellency," he said, then strode out again.
Palpatine did not make Luke wait two hundred and thirty one seconds. The moment the doors slammed shut, he said, "Rise, child."
Luke rose.
"Come closer." Palpatine beckoned, and Luke mounted the stairs to the dais, to stand before the throne, almost as if by compulsion.
His head was still bowed.
Finally, Palpatine said, "You claim to repent for your rebellious sins. You claim to want the capture of your sister, and either her return or her death. You claim to be loyal to me and my Empire, alone." A hand came up to caress Luke's cheek; one sharp fingernails dug right into the skin, drawing blood. "And yet the moment I send you out of my sight, your sister succeeds in destroying a factory I sent you to reinforce.
"You understand how this must look, child."
Luke swallowed. He could still feel his father's enraged gaze on him, on his Emperor. "Yes, Master."
"Have you anything to say for yourself?"
He swallowed again. Made to shake his head, aborted the motion, then tried in a hoarse whisper: "I didn't help her. I did everything I was asked to do perfectly. I committed no sabotage, no murder, and I coordinated nothing with her; I passed on no military secrets."
The truth rang in the Force. He knew Palpatine heard it.
His master hummed. "I believe you, child."
Luke let himself relax infinitesimally.
"But. . ." His nail dragged across Luke's cheek again, smearing blood. "You must understand how it looks."
His father took a step forwards from his position as the gargoyle in the shadows, the silent watcher, to say, "Master. . ."
Palpatine leaned in.
"I believe you had nothing to do with it," he whispered. "I believe that, despite whatever rebellious notions you still wrestle with in your heart—I know it's true and I care not, child, as long as you make sure that your Imperial pride always wins—you had nothing to do with this.
"But I know that you wanted to. And I know that next time you might."
He drew his hand back, and placed both hands on Luke's neck, then his shoulders, in the facsimile of a proud grandfather.
"So let me remind you," he said louder—for Vader's benefit, no doubt—"of the price of treason."
"Master," Vader burst out, striding forwards suddenly, "is this necessary—"
Palpatine threw Luke back—down the stairs, head hitting the floor with a sickening thump.
Luke barely had a moment to recover before the onslaught came.
They arrived back at base in the early morning, local time. Leia had napped just before they came out of hyperspace, so she was feeling fully alert and ready as she navigated them in.
Dried tears still caked her cheeks from when she'd watched that message—and from the second time she'd played it, just before reversion—but. . . that was alright.
Her mother would understand.
She brought the Ark Angel down in the hangar, being excruciatingly careful with it—Aphra's ship was as weird as she was—and sagged back in her seat when she could finally release the controls, a strange weight rolling off her shoulders. She could see not only Ahsoka but her mother standing in the entrance waiting for her, and it buoyed her step somewhat—her mother had come to her, for once, even for what had been (as far as Padmé knew) an insignificant mission.
It was that which spurred her on as she unbuckled her crash webbing, stuck her tongue out when Artoo twittered something childish, and jogged down the ramp. Luke's message bounced in her pocket on her left; her new lightsaber bounced on her belt on her right.
Padmé smiled broadly at her when she approached, a tinge of relief in her closed off Force presence. She reached for Leia's hands immediately; Leia, after a moment's shock, took them.
Artoo trundled right past them to a golden protocol droid standing further down the corridor. He was half turned towards them in a curious, pleasant manner, but then Artoo rammed into his (metal) shins and he squawked. "I see you're back from wherever you went this time—"
"That's Threepio," Ahsoka supplied. Her voice somehow managed to be exasperated, fond and melancholy all at once. "He's Artoo's counterpart—a protocol droid. We were just using him to decrypt intel."
Leia nodded. "Aphra?" she asked. "What happened to her?"
"She's currently being held in one of our cells," Ahsoka supplied. "We're going to try to see if she'll give us any information on Vader later, but so far she's just having fun making faces in the one-way mirror."
Yeah. That sounded like Aphra.
Padmé squeezed her hands. "I'm glad you're safe," she said, and Leia wondered at the tremble in her voice. "And. . . you've got a new lightsaber?"
Leia didn't reach for it physically; she didn't want to let go of her mother's hands. But she detached it from her belt with the Force and let it hover for a moment; it looked very similar to her old lightsaber, but sharp-eyed people could see the slight modifications to shape, weight, balance she'd made—as well as the contrast between the new, silvery parts she'd scrounged together from the junk pile known as the Ark Angel and the dark gunmetal of her original pieces.
"I dropped Governor Vilrein off at her brother's village on Jedha," Leia said. "There was an old Jedi Temple nearby—one with a vein of kyberite that hadn't yet run dry."
"And you got in?" Ahsoka asked. "Alone?"
Leia hesitated.
"I. . . had help," she admitted. "But it sounds crazy."
Ahsoka's smile was wry. "I doubt that whatever you say, I'll find it crazy."
"Well then," Leia said baldly, "a glowing blue ghost of that crazy old wizard Ben Kenobi helped me open the temple."
Ahsoka laughed.
"Yeah," she said, "I've definitely heard crazier. I'll. . . try to explain that to you later."
"Now," Padmé said. Her voice was suddenly urgent, but she turned to drape her arm around Leia's shoulders and move them slowly out of the hangar. "I hear— I heard you've had a message from—"
"Luke."
Padmé swallowed. "Yes."
"I— I have. I've watched it, and—" She laughed.
It was hysterical. It lacked humour. It was, in fact, more of a sob that expressed every ounce of built up sorrow, desperation and relief that had been clogging the pathways to her heart since she left Luke in the cold, windswept airlanes of Coruscant.
She didn't know how to convey what she felt about what he'd said.
So she just steered her mother towards the nearest briefing room and gestured to them into it.
Padmé and Ahsoka took their places around the central table, the holoprojector there; Leia made sure to lock the door firmly behind them before she inserted the datachip into the (standard, Imperial-adapted, though they sat alongside some Republic-issue) ports. Immediately Luke's voice rang out, though no image appeared.
"It's horrendous. Disgusting. Abominable."
Ahsoka jumped. Padmé was frozen, staring into the empty space where the holo was about to appear like she—
Well.
Like she was about to hear and see a direct message from her long lost son.
Before the code request could loop again, Leia said calmly, "An affront to life itself."
"What?" Padmé murmured.
Without taking her eyes off the blue hologram now coalescing, Leia said, "The Death Star is."
The image that emerged was of her brother, looking ghastly and ghostly against the darkness of his surroundings, rings around his eyes. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, leaning against what looked like the standard bunk of a high-ranking officer on a Star Destroyer, though the lights in whatever room he was in were dim.
He fiddled with a few more switches, and suddenly Leia could hear him—hear the erratic rasp of his breathing, the tapping of the fingers on his (prosthetic?) right hand against his knee, almost hear the heartbeat she could see hammering at the base of his throat, because—
His collar was open.
He'd materialised so he was facing straight at Padmé. Her hand came up to her mouth and she crumpled into it; Leia thought she might start to sob.
Luke looked like utter shavit, after all.
"Leia," he said. "Ahsoka, M—" He swallowed harshly, looked away briefly, his cheeks and neck darkening slightly. "Mother."
Leia knew she wasn't imagining the slight—slight enough as to be almost unnoticeable—way his lips curved up when he got to say that.
And she knew she wasn't imagining Padmé's muffled sob, either.
"I— I don't know what you've heard." He grimaced, his voice a beacon of pain, and Leia wanted to hold him— "I don't know what you must think of me, but I guess— I guess that what this message is about. Telling you what I'm doing, so. . . whatever you think of me, you can think it based on the facts.
"I did not return to the Empire. I will never"—and Leia ought to be relieved at the fury, the vehemence, in that word, but in truth it just scared her to think what had put such rage in him at all—"ever, return to the Empire. I promise. I just had to get out of that Force-forsaken cell, to do something useful. . ."
A self-deprecating quirk of the lips.
"I figured that spying again, as high as the risk would be, was the best way to go about it."
Leia, for all that she'd seen it before, winced. Ahsoka grimaced fiercely—though she didn't look that surprised, Leia noticed, eyes narrowing. Padmé didn't move at all, but her eyes welled with fresh tears.
"I— My original plan was to get out of the cell through my pretence, grab as much information as I could, and run at the first chance I got," Luke was saying now. His gaze couldn't quite meet the holoprojector—couldn't quite meet any of their eyes.
Leia empathised thoroughly with Padmé and Ahsoka when they both leaned forwards. "But. . .?"
"But then Palpatine's plan for me was that I get assigned to Tarkin is his little protégé, or someone to take under his wing. He, as well as Ma— the Sixth Sister, serve as. . . watchers, essentially. And I could give them the slip, but—and I know what you're thinking Leia, and she has nothing to do with it—"
Leia snorted.
Ahsoka gave her a curious look.
Leia said, "Later."
"—but then I found out," Luke folded his hands in front of him and sighed, "that Tarkin has been given control of the Death Star. And as his aide. . ."
Leia, for all that she'd seen this before, closed her eyes. "No, Luke, no no no. . ."
". . .I can get to the plans," he finished. "And if I can get to the plans—or, hell, if I can talk to Galen Erso, find out if there's any weaknesses, and then I can try to contact you again and tell you, so you can destroy it. Because it needs to be destroyed.
"I know you have no reason to trust me, so I'll add this as proof, and because I'm terrified for you: Thrawn is still hunting Amidala. And he's narrowed down your location to the Raioballo sector. He was on Coruscant recently asking Palpatine for permission and funds for a large scale assault; if you're anywhere near that sector, I advise that you get out, and get out now."
He was trembling, Leia noticed. Shaking from head to toe.
She tried not to think about the fact that it had been on Luke's recommendation that Palpatine set Thrawn on the case.
"I'm sorry I can't come in person," he whispered. "Leia—I'm so, so sorry. I want to see you again, I miss you, and I want to join you right now, wherever you are. But if I can do this, I have to—and you know it too. What this monstrosity is capable of. . ."
He shuddered again and shook his head.
"I love you," he reiterated. He blinked suddenly and tears scoured his face; he tried to wipe them away subtly, then gave up and let them fall. "I miss you, so much. I— I'll see you soon, I promise, after I succeed in this." He smiled. "I promise.
"Now, I'm gonna leave this somewhere on Cymoon for you to find, because Tarkin received intelligence that you would be there and is going there to shore up its defences again the attack, and I promise you I'll do my best to sabotage them. I— yeah." He shrugged. "I promise.
"I'll see you—"
Luke jerked as there was a rattatat on the door, harsh and blunt and loud, and an Outer Rim-accented voice shouted in:
"Kid! That grumpy old governor guy wants to see you in his office before we arrive. Some sorta briefing."
Luke's shoulders sagged, and he tried to smile at the holoprojector. He tried.
"I'll be out in a second," he called back to whoever that was, then looked at the holoprojector and mouthed I love you.
The image flickered out.
Padmé released a deep breath she'd kept pent up inside her, bending over double, hand braced on the table.
"So much like his father," she murmured. Leia didn't think she was supposed to hear that.
Ahsoka stepped forwards, concerned. "What he said, about Thrawn—"
"We'll start evacuations," Padmé said. "This was only ever a small base anyway."
She was still staring at the spot where Luke's image had disappeared.
The guards on her cell had been slashed from two to one, and a lazy one at that, so Aphra pricked her ears up and paid attention. This cell was underground on whatever planet the Rebels had made this particular base on—the earth that stained the walls through the corners of her underground hideout was a reddish-brown, but that didn't tell her anything—and she could hear heavy thumping in the levels above.
What were they doing, a freeform Sullustan dance routine? What the hell was important enough that they diverted so many resources to it, so frantically—judging by the speed of the thumping (provided this base was mainly staffed by humanoids and not quadrupeds)—that a dangerous prisoner was only guarded by one man?
And a weedy man, she thought, from what she'd seen of him through the teeny tiny flap in the door. She could take him. If she wasn't wearing shock cuffs. If she wasn't trapped behind a metal door.
Never mind.
Did they just think she wasn't a significant threat? (If so, rude.)
Or. . .?
She grinned.
Were they evacuating?
Did they think her—and her employment by certain Imperials—was too much of a risk, so they were packing up their base and skedaddling before an angry, asthmatic Sith Lord descended upon them? Did they think he had a tracker on her, or that she'd escape and alert him to their location nonetheless?
She liked that explanation a lot better, as egoistic and unrealistic as it was. But the explanation itself was of no consequence.
What was of consequence was that she did have far fewer guards now, and that everyone on base was distracted.
Really. Two hours should not be enough time for someone to bust their way out of a cell. These Rebels were soft.
But, she had noted as she sprinted through the base (ducking and weaving to avoid the shouts and shots; she was damn lucky that the demon princess herself hadn't turned up to throttle her), that it was a pretty small one, as far as military bases went. Maybe it was a stopover. Maybe it was an outpost. Who knew.
What mattered was—
She skidded to a halt in front of the open door to a hangar and grinned.
The chaotic stripes and shapes of the Ark Angel—like the product of a youngling's geometry lesson, she thought affectionately—gleamed under the white sunlight.
White sunlight. Alright, that narrowed down the options for where she could be.
She locked the hangar door behind her and shot the controls before someone could blast them open or something, then took off up the ramp. That ragtag bunch of Rebels must have decided to bring her ship back for whatever reason.
Good on them.
She nearly slipped over when she first got inside, fast as she was going, and scowled fiercely down at the floor. Sand.
There had been no sand on Cymoon!
Where had whoever had flown her ship—the space sorceress, probably—taken it?
A noise of disgust blasted out of her throat but she ignored it and just forged onwards. She needed to get out—
She blasted out of the base, evading the turbolasers. Only once did she glance down at the planet below and recognise it.
Dantooine. Huh.
It was a good place for a Rebel base, she supposed. But not for much longer.
Soon, Vader would know.
She pulled back the lever and leapt to hyperspace.
Only then did she go to check on what, exactly, had been done to her ship in the meantime. If they'd put a tracker on it for whatever reason, she could disable it; if they'd left any nasty surprises in the engineering, she could disable those too. . .
The ship had been used by two people—humans, she'd guess—and a droid. They hadn't really messed with anything, though she was annoyed to find out that that demon twin had wiped the navicomputer of where she'd jumped.
And wiped the backup navicomputer. That girl was good.
If she was desperate, Aphra supposed she could analyse the sand particles left on the ship, but she wasn't that desperate. She didn't need to know where they'd been; she just needed to let Vader know where they were now, before they finished their evacuation.
So she finished her diagnostics check on everything in the ship, satisfied. . . except for one thing.
The holoprojector on her console had been used.
It was barely noticeable—just the fact that the Imperial datachip slot which Aphra hardly ever had cause to use was looking a little shinier than usual—but it was there. And after a quick check, she couldn't find a log of any incoming or outgoing transmissions (wiped or otherwise) anyway, so she knew it had to have been a chip.
The chip was no longer in there.
But. . .
She frowned. With this particular machine, she knew a certain trick that. . .
A hologram flashed to life.
The ship, reconstructing the data from whatever it had downloaded.
The image stuttered and cut out, a voice and face constantly flickering, but it was enough to intrigue Aphra.
Because that was Luke Vader—the slightly more tolerable demon twin, but only slightly—in the holo.
It could be perfectly innocent. She was sure that the girl would have every interest in hanging onto things from her brother, in protecting her own, even if the brother wasn't complicit in it.
But Aphra watched as much of it as she could construct. It wasn't much—the machine was malfunctioning; karking sand—but it was enough.
It was suspicious.
Vader might kill her for failing to kidnap her quarry, but between the location of the latest Rebel base, as well as of his daughter, and the news that his son was absolutely a traitor as well. . .
. . .this was something she thought he'd want to hear.