Chapter Thirty: Don't Ask Questions

"How is it that you're suddenly dragging me across the underbelly of the galaxy?" Padmé had asked Obi-Wan when he'd told her of a place where he thought they might be able to scrounge up some winter gear. "Thought that was my playground."

"A mostly legitimate business is hardly the underbelly, Padmé," he'd shot back, looking a little offended on his friends' behalf. "And you should know better than anyone the Jedi take our friends where we can get them."

Despite the "mostly legitimate" label, however, he'd asked her to stay behind and guard the shuttle while he haggled for their gear. "I'm sure the security measures are adequate, I just . . . trust you more than I do an automated system."

Hardly subtle, but she'd let it go—if he was determined to be gallant about her condition, better for him to get it out of his system now than for his bottled-up chivalry to spill out while they were in the middle of traversing Snowblind. Whatever that looked like.

"Gods, Amidala," she muttered to herself, looking across the endless tasteful boring leather-coated interior of the shuttle cockpit, "it's not a condition." You're pregnant, you're having a kid, you're not ill or some waif who's gone crazy with her baby.

Neither of them had spoken about it beyond that one word: condition. It fit within the constipated politeness that was Obi-Wan's default mode, but it was more than that, Padmé knew. He didn't want to talk about things because it would mean talking about the father. He didn't want to do that, and he knew she didn't want to.

You're gonna have to sooner or later, you dumb bitch. You can't just not tell him.

Can you?

Whenever the two of them had talked about having kids—which hadn't been often—she'd always just assumed her husband would be the favorite parent. She'd be the one to take care of the practicalities—acquiring food and shelter, keeping them all safe, making sure the right lessons were learned before they were needed. Anakin would be the one who romped around with them, who broke the rules for them, who acted like a big kid himself.

Instead, here she was, ten weeks in, nothing to show for it except a sour stomach and frequent headaches and a fatigue that had deepened past what she'd thought possible. No one to ferry her through them except Obi-Wan, who, gods bless him, didn't know how to do that without acting as though she'd caught something terminal. And she supposed she couldn't blame him, when she herself hadn't even begun to think of the thing inside her as a future person yet. When she couldn't even think about where it had come from.

Just admit that you miss him, she thought, running her thumb along the wood pendant at her throat.

And gods it was true—missed that crooked smirk he'd make right before he teased her, missed the way his hair felt when she ran her fingers through it, missed the reassuring sensation that had come with knowing when she got home there'd be someone she could talk to. True, she hadn't had the latter for a long time now, but she'd had its ghost—she hadn't realized how strongly she could feel even for that until it was taken from her.

A muted clattering pulled her out of staring at the instrument board in front of her, and she reached down to key the intercom. "Geez, you buy bars of silver while you were down there?"

"It's just some climbing equipment," Obi-Wan replied, sounding a bit winded. "I'll be a few more trips, couldn't manage everything at once."

"You know, I'm more than happy to—"

"No, I'm fine, really. I could use the exercise after being cooped up for so long. Won't be too much longer." And with that, the line went dead.

Rolling her eyes, she went back to looking at nothing. She could have returned to her reverie, but instead she let her eyes slowly roll across the instrument panel, examining every detail and taking in absolutely nothing. Just a little longer. Just a little longer and then we can get off this rock and get both our blood pumping a little—

—skreeskreeskreeskreeskree—

It was a sound she'd never heard the instrument panel emit before. "Shit," she said aloud, snapping her eyes into focus, "it better not be damage, Bail, you just gave us this thing—"

Wait. It wasn't an alarm klaxon, or even any kind of diagnostic notification. It was . . . the comm unit.

As far as Padmé knew, only two places had the shuttle's frequency—the Royal House of Alderaan, and the Jedi Temple. And both had been given a very firm Don't call us, we'll call you mandate.

The wise thing to do would be to shut the comm off. They couldn't afford to be caught, not when they were finally close to getting something tangible.

But what if Bail's in trouble. Or Palpatine's done something to the Jedi. Or . . . or something important.

Half-hearted even to her own ears. But enough.

She cleared her throat hard enough to hurt, then shot to her feet and pressed accept before she could stop herself.

As soon as the caller's image flickered into existence, she clenched her fingers down hard enough for her nails to bite into her palms.

"Anakin?"

Stars hung motionless outside the window, while beyond the door an aura of laughter and camaraderie radiated in the Force. Anakin knew the moment he set foot on the bridge it would disappear—the Arbiter's crew would fall silent upon his arrival, setting aside their friendly conversation until Executor Vader left the room again. In his presence, they spoke only of the business at hand. They didn't see him as one of them; only as a superior to be respected. Feared.

He hated it.

It was why he'd chosen to pass the time in his office, awaiting the final hyperspace jump in silence and solitude while trying (and failing) to block out the noise on the other side of his office door. Time seemed to crawl—the last lightspeed calculation was taking longer than usual. Precision was necessary when approaching Confederate targets.

Above his desk, one of the myriad of terminal displays blinked a descending countdown. Eight minutes, Anakin thought as his eyes flitted across the datafeeds. This was his chance to absorb any last-minute intel, to prepare as best as possible for taking down the Techno Union.

If you're going to make the call, you should do it now.

He shuddered. This voice inside his head was still his, but it was deeper. Darker. Cloaked in shadow. It fought with his thoughts. Argued—quite convincingly, at times.

It had been with him since Kamino.

Looking down at the crumpled piece of flimsiplast in his mechanical hand, Anakin sighed. It bore a hastily scrawled comm frequency—one that he punched into the terminal before him with more than a little hesitation.

You shouldn't, he told himself, fighting to sound more confident than he felt. Not before a mission. All you'll do is distract yourself.

In answer, rather than speaking, the other voice remained silent as the image he'd dwelled on for days flashed through his mind.

Padmé and Obi-Wan, standing together on the shore, watching as he slipped beneath the surface.

Swallowing, bracing himself for the inevitable, he pressed the call button.

Each ring was excruciating, echoing in his ears, mixing with the sound of each of his heartbeats. You're not prepared for this, his own voice told him. He reached forward to hang up the call.

Don't, the other voice ordered.

He hesitated, weighing the conflicting instructions for just a moment too long. A holographic image flickered to life before him—a miniature human standing atop his desk.

"Anakin?"

He hadn't seen her in . . . gods, it must have been months by now. Looking at her, he was seized by the desire not to say anything, just to lean forward as if he could pierce the hologram and study her face to face. For a moment, he stood like that, frozen, wishing he could step through the image and into wherever she was.

Then the spell broke. "Padmé!" he said, the name exiting his mouth in a breathy gasp. "I . . . I didn't think you'd answer. Thought I would have to leave a message."

"About what?"

Anakin grimaced. "I—" He trailed off, clearing his throat after a moment of silence. "I don't know. I hadn't thought that far ahead."

A static-laced chuckle emerged from the comm unit; the holographic image of Padmé gave a slight shrug. "Hey, you've gotten this far in life without planning ahead. Why start now?"

Anakin laughed along with her. What was this? He couldn't even recall the last time they'd spoken, but it certainly hadn't gone this well.

"So, Palpatine's got you out traveling again?"

Dammit. Any chance of a pleasant conversation had just gone out the airlock—Anakin was certain of it. "Uh, yeah," he began, searching for his next words.

You should just tell her the truth, one voice echoed in his skull. She's your wife, she deserves to know.

She can't know, the other voice said in turn. A lie is the best way to protect her.

"He's got me running recon missions," Anakin spat out without thinking. "Jump into a system in a starfighter. Run a couple scans, snap a few holos, jump back out. Sometimes while being chased."

For a moment, the shadows between the scanlines seemed to deepen—she looked tired, as tired as he was. Then she met his eyes again, and the shade vanished. "Is it fun?" Anakin could just make out a lopsided grin between the scanlines on her face.

"Only when I'm being chased," he answered with a chuckle.

Padmé smiled. "Hey, at least the chancellor's putting your skills to good use. Maybe next he'll have you start scamming people."

He put on a grin—one he desperately hoped she wouldn't notice was fake. This is all wrong, he thought. She's never like this when Palpatine's involved.

Change the subject, the other voice said.

"So," he began after a silence between them had lingered too long. "You're out traveling too?"

"Huh?" she asked.

He felt his heart rate quicken as the voices inside him fought. Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to, the first said.

But you want the answers, the other shouted over it.

Anakin held up the crumpled piece of flimsiplast—the one with the comm frequency scribbled on it. "I called the palace to get ahold of you. They said you were away on personal business. Gave me this comm frequency." He waggled the scrap of his handwriting. "Why didn't you take the Dancer?"

Padmé shrugged. "I'm not sure she's even spaceworthy after that last engine overload. I haven't been back aboard since, well . . ." she trailed off for a moment, looking down at her feet before glancing back up. "You know."

Anakin said nothing. He wasn't sure what he was even supposed to say to that. Was she talking about the part of the night that had ended with them screaming at each other, with him punching a wall and storming off? Or the part before that, where for the first time in months (maybe years) everything had seemed just right?

Fortunately, she spoke again before he felt the need to fill the silence—or find an answer.

"Anyway, the palace let me borrow a shuttle."

A lump formed in Anakin's throat as the voices argued again.

Don't ask questions—

But you want the answers!

"Where'd you go?"

Padmé glanced down at her feet again and bit her lower lip, raising one hand to scratch the side of her head. "That night on the Dancer, we talked about taking a trip. And the more I thought about it, the more it sounded like a good idea. But you're always busy with work, so—"

"You just went by yourself?" he interrupted.

"Yeah," she said.

And then, through the comm line, he heard the worst sound he could have possibly heard. A voice—a man's voice, one he would have recognized no matter how far away it was from the audio receiver. No matter how many layers of transmission static it was buried underneath. He couldn't possibly have been mistaken.

Don't ask questions.

But you want the answers.

"Who the hell is that?"

She knew he'd heard the voice from the intercom, that he had to know who it was, but also knew that if she admitted anything, if she confirmed the truth that had turned his voice into a rising flame, it would bring things crashing down in ways absolutely none of them would know how to deal with.

Her brain didn't give her time to grope for a proper lie, to find something that had even a veneer of plausibility. If she hesitated, she knew, he would rush in to accuse her, or worse, Obi-Wan would call her again. Opening her mouth, she spat out the first syllable that occurred to her.

"Bail!"

The crackling image of her husband stood silently in front of her, surprise and anger instantly frozen by bewilderment as though he'd run face first into an invisible wall. Behind her, the distant sound of Obi-Wan's approaching footsteps had stopped, the volume of her voice over the cockpit intercom enough to convey that something was very wrong.

Before either man, one just outside and one billions of miles away, could make a sound, she barreled forward. "You got me, I didn't go by myself. There's this diplomatic function taking place on some palace planet in the Mid Rim, and he asked me to tag along. Figured it was as good an excuse as any to get that break in, right?"

The hologram of Anakin lapsed out of its frozen bemusement into a crooked sneer. It was an expression Padmé had only seen once or twice before—her husband's best approximation of his usual lopsided grin in the midst of rising anger. "So you just didn't tell me that part for, what, a very good reason?"

As she processed the extent of her situation's helplessness, Padmé felt her own sour smile rising before she could stop it, words coming out with a sardonic bite even as her stomach writhed. "I just didn't want you to be the only one with secrets, dear. Surely you can understand that."

"Sure, sure. What I don't understand is why you'd be going on a vacation with your boss. Alone. Or how that's even a vacation."

"That's funny, Anakin, it really is. I'd think that you of all people wouldn't be a stranger to taking time off with your boss."

There was a moment then where, had he been there in person, Anakin's anger might have been alarming. The scanlines and noise of the hologram made his face hard to see, muted some of the incandescent rage that suddenly bloomed across it. When he spoke, it was in the same adolescent sulk she'd known for the last decade, that she'd always hated when they fought. "Tell him to come in and say hello. Been too long since I saw Bail outside a Senate function."

Without thinking, she crossed her arms, making a wall out of them. "I don't think he should see you like this."

"You're not his mother, Padmé, he's an old friend and I want to—"

"You're acting like a child. You can leave me without so much as a word of when you'll next be back, but I go off on one break, one gods-damned thing for myself, and suddenly I'm the bad guy?"

"I didn't go off with—"

"You know how many years I had to put up with shit from you? Contort my whole life around you being a Jedi." Her cool, rational side was whispering in her ear with increasing alarm that this wasn't what she wanted—the goal was to get him off the call, not make him madder—but she could feel her face flushing red with frustration, and the embarrassment at that was just making things worse, and if she backed down now he would win, gods damn it. "And then, just when I was getting used to it, you left, but not to come back to me. Nope, to come back to your job."

Glowering, he squeezed his mechanical hand down on itself. "Yeah, I was the only one who was never home. Sure."

"Yep, that's right, when I'm working it's some kind of betrayal," she said, barking out a shouted not-laugh. "Oh, but for you it's fine, it's all for Palpatine, can't stop Anakin Skywalker from being the errand boy for the greater good! Don't tell him he's just one person, his ego can't take that!"

She flung her arm outward, and it passed through the hologram with a buzz that left her hand tingling. Her fingers trailed specks of light for a few seconds, the central image a cloud of static, before the pieces snapped back into place.

Anakin stumbled an instinctive step back. Seeing hurt flare up on his face, for a moment she felt a childish shame overcome her—but then he looked into her eyes, and the furnace of anger was back. When he spoke, any trace of petulance had vanished from his voice—instead there was an iron steadiness. "You know what, you and Bail enjoy the trip. Try not to start any wars while you're gone."

Before she could reply, his image had fizzled into nothingness.

Padmé felt her lips peel back from her teeth in a grin. For a moment, she raised her fist to punch the nearest leather seatback; then, she whipped around and poured out of the cockpit.

Kenobi was outside, standing on the boarding ramp, a gods-damned sled full of boxes behind him. The rope hung slackly between his fingers, as though he'd forgotten what he'd brought the cargo in for; he looked at her with a mix of concern and bewilderment. "Padmé, was that—"

"Don't talk to me, Kenobi," she hissed, through teeth that were still bared in a furiously wide smile. "Just load the gods-damned ship."

As she pushed past the Jedi, a chilled breeze blew across her face, feeling like ice against the burning heat that was still inside her skin. Wherever they were, they'd landed on an outdoor pad—it was daytime, but the sky was overcast enough, the air humming with enough electricity, that Padmé knew it would rain soon.

She'd follow the trail the sled had left, grab the rest of the gear Kenobi had left at his friend's place, haul it back to the shuttle. Get them the hell out of here.

The wind whipped at her hair, lashing it across her eyes. When she turned to clear her vision, she saw Obi-Wan—still standing in place, his back to her, the rope of the sled slack between his fingers, as though he would not be able to move until she came back.

A long, burning drop of liquid rolled down her cheek. She dashed it away, then turned and started walking.

Rage swirled across Anakin's vision. It blew out the highlights of every light beyond the viewport, darkened the edges of his sight like the corners of a fading holoprint.

He had no words. He simply stood there like a fool, feet planted in the middle of the Arbiter's bridge, eyes locked on what lay beyond the window. He was surrounded by a crew that wouldn't speak to him. Haunted by the sound of a man's voice (and the awful, sickening feeling that he'd been lied to).

And enraged by the sight before him. He had so looked forward to blowing up the Techno Union—an outlet for his fury.

Someone had beaten him to it.

Use this, one of the voices hissed in his ear. There is power in your anger. Let it fuel you.

Anakin glared as debris drifted by the window—a mere fragment of the destruction that sprawled out before them. The hyperspace jump had been perfect, planting them deep in the Saleucami system, above one of the star's inner worlds. Uninhabited and covered in water, its seas too hostile to sail upon—a perfect source of hydroelectric power.

The cables stretching from sea to space had been severed; sparks still crackled from one end. Ships were blown in two, orbital microchip factories flayed apart and their contents scattered across the void. Even the Techno Union's legendary data storage moon, once thought to be almost impregnable, was missing a chunk. Like someone had taken a bite out of an apple. A mist of coolant clustered in her orbit; globs of metal that had melted in the overheating server racks and been snap-cooled by the vacuum of space spun about in irregular patterns.

He wanted to scream. To will a black hole into existence in the center of it all; one that would suck everything in.

Even himself.

A crackle on the comm brought his mind back from the brink.

"Mayday! Mayday! We are a registered merchant space vehicle, adrift and without power. Our life support reserves are at thirty percent. Requesting immediate assistance."

There it was. Amidst the diorama of destruction, a drifting shuttle—dwarfed by the tattered remains of the Techno Union's largest mobile factories.

Without waiting for instructions, the Arbiter's helmsman reached for the controls and inched the corvette forward. Anakin wanted to turn and shout at him, to dress him down for acting without orders—but he couldn't bring himself to bother.

They should fear you, the dark voice growled.

There's no point, the other one said. You would have told him to do that anyway.

"They are likely lying, Executor Vader," a voice rang out from the rear of the bridge. Anakin kept his feet rooted in place, but glanced over his shoulder—the officer at the comms station stared back at him.

Oh, sure, now they'll talk to you.

"The vessel's IFF transponder tags it as a Techno Union shipping vehicle," the comms officer continued. "How would you like us to respond?"

Turning back to face the window, Anakin glared at the adrift vessel and clenched his mechanical hand.

The listing ship bloomed into a fireball as a nearby cluster of wreckage slammed into it.

Anakin closed his eyes and exhaled.

He yanked them back open when a horrid shriek of static screamed through every speaker on the bridge. Crewmembers rushed to clamp their hands over their ears, while the comms officer frantically jabbed at her console. Anakin gritted his teeth as the sound tore at his eardrums, letting the pain wash over him. He drew it in. Let the hurt happen—allowed himself to feel it.

He was almost disappointed when the sound faded away.

After a moment, he spoke. "What was that?"

"A message capsule."

Anakin turned to his right. The words had come not from the comms officer, but from the Arbiter's helmsman. He looked slightly older than Anakin, and was a skilled pilot and navigator if this mission was anything to go by. That was about all Anakin knew—like the rest of the crew, he'd made a point not to learn.

The helmsman raised a finger to indicate the space beyond the viewport. "There it is." He paused and shook his head. "They wanted us to find it."

Wrong.

They wanted you to find it.

Anakin shoved aside the voices echoing in his skull and took a step closer to the helm console. "Bring it aboard."

"I can't do that, sir."

He felt a spike of irritation rising in his chest, but he forced it back down.

Good, save it for later.

"Why not?"

"We're in enemy territory. There are regulations. That thing could be a bomb, an EMP, a tracking device, a poison gas canister—"

"I get it," Anakin interrupted as he glared at the helmsman, a layer of annoyance woven in his voice. The helmsman stared back, seemingly unfazed.

"I just have to scan it first, then we can capture it with the tractor beam. One moment." He turned back to his console and poked at a series of keys, muttering to himself along the way. "Standard T9 message capsule. Hollow cargo compartment. There are objects inside not connected to the device's circuitry. Ah!" He turned to Anakin and spoke at full volume. "It appears to be broadcasting a message. I can play that for you while the scan finishes, sir."

They wanted YOU to find it.

Anakin's mechanical finger jabbed down on the helm console, depressing a button that flashed with a rhythmic green light. "Clear the bridge," he said, his voice a low murmur.

Then, when no one moved, he shouted. "Everybody out!"

Chairs spun in place as their occupants leapt to their feet and dashed toward the bridge door. When the last officer had crossed the threshold, Anakin reached across the room and slammed the door shut with a shove of mental energy. Then, inhaling deeply, he lifted his finger from the blinking button—its weighty click resonated throughout the bridge.

Before him, a hologram flickered into existence. He stood face to face with the image—a woman in space pirate garb, her icy white hair shimmering in the blue-tinged projection. A scar ran across her face, gnarled with age.

He remembered the day she'd gotten it.

"Hello, Vader."

Valis. Pirate admiral. Apprentice of a Sith Lord. She had encountered Anakin Skywalker over the years . . . but what could she possibly want with Executor Vader?

"If you're seeing this message, you've arrived at what remains of the Techno Union . . . after my band of pirates has dealt with them. We share common interests, you and I—and I believe that dismantling what remains of the CIS is just one among many.

"I'd like to meet—privately, and face to face—to discuss how future cooperation may prove mutually beneficial. Inside this message capsule you'll find navigational charts which will guide you to my base of operations: the lost pirate fortress of San Sestina.

"It may come as no surprise that a certain someone close to me would oppose you and I working together. I've taken great care to keep this meeting off their radar—I trust you'll do the same for anyone in your circle who would find our partnership objectionable.

"I look forward to meeting you, Vader. Let's end this war. I'll be waiting."

The image of Valis faded away just as the helm console pinged an alert—its scan was complete, the message capsule was safe to bring aboard.

Anakin had half a mind to take a seat at the gunnery station and blow the thing to bits. End it right then and there. Forget he ever saw the message. Go home. Get back to work.

Don't waste this.

The voice was right. He had been dealt a very interesting hand.

He could play the safe card. Turn the capsule in, give it to Palpatine. Prove his loyalty. To the Chancellor. To the Republic.

Don't waste this, the voice repeated. Louder. Harsher. Like it was angry at him for even considering such a course of action.

He could play the risks. Take her up on her offer. Join her—for a time. Dismantle the CIS. Vader and Valis, side by side. Warriors of the Force. She might even help him kill Maul.

The voice must have thought this a curious idea. It said nothing. Allowed Anakin to ponder for a moment. Waited for another option to dawn on him. These were not the only cards in his hand.

There was another. One far more interesting. One that left no loose ends.

Valis didn't know it, but power hung in the balance here. The Force hung in the balance. Destroying her could make him powerful enough to bring down Maul. Destroying them both could make him powerful enough to end the war.

And Valis had just invited Vader to her doorstep.

The voice echoed in his head, louder and stronger than ever. Don't waste this. Save it. When the time is right, use it.

He stepped back toward the helm console and depressed another button. When he spoke, his voice rang out through every intercom panel on the Arbiter.

"Attention, crew. This is Executor Vader. Clear the hangar area. The message capsule we encountered is being brought aboard for examination. I repeat, all crew should clear the hangar area at once. Do not touch the message capsule. Do not scan it. Make no new records of it in the mission logs, and erase any that may already exist. Forget you ever saw it. That's an order. Vader out."

Gritting his teeth, he spun on a heel and marched toward the bridge door, at the same time reaching out with his mind—beyond the viewport, out into the stars. He tugged on the message capsule, willing it toward the open hangar doors of the Arbiter.

No tractor beams. No scanning crews. No log books or records, no sensor equipment. No witnesses. No one would know. No one could know.

He would deal with this himself.

Republic Archives: Techno Union - Datamoon

The centerpiece of the Techno Union chip manufacturing operation is the "Datamoon," a massive server hub built within a hollowed out planetoid orbiting the ocean world of Casparar (Saleucami system, Outer Rim Territories). A closely guarded corporate secret of the Techno Union, little is known about the precise details of its construction. Prior to the Clone Wars, the object held relatively little tactical importance to the Republic, and Republic Intelligence has only studied it in passing.

The few details known about the Datamoon's construction come from corporate espionage reports—most of which surfaced in court filings during legal conflict between the Techno Union and its rivals. The Grand Army has also attempted to reverse engineer the Datamoon in concept only, working to understand it better by having Republic scientists devise how to build one themselves.

The technological hardware within the Datamoon is thought to be built with materials mined from inside its own structure. A network of coolant tubes likely runs throughout the Datamoon as well—radiators visible on the surface (see Sandavi Corporation v. Techno Union, Exhibit 243-B) suggest an extensive internal temperature control system. What exactly is housed in the Datamoon's servers is unknown. A combination of fabrication schematics, secret mining locations, and other company data is likely—considering the effort the Techno Union puts into protecting the Datamoon, it is plausible that its destruction would be a great blow to them, one from which they may never recover.

As an item of additional interest, the term "Datamoon" is technically a misnomer. The structure is not a natural satellite of the planet Casparar. It is instead a rogue planetoid. How the Techno Union managed to capture a roving celestial object is unknown—though such a feat was undoubtedly a considerable expense.