INTERLUDE
interlude: 1) an intervening or interruptive period of time or space
2) a short period when a situation or activity is different from what comes before and after it
Chapter 1
PADMÉ AMIDALA
The hangar around them is definitively quiet, fast becoming awkwardly quiet, but still Padmé continues to hold Anakin in her embrace. She can't let go any more than she had been able to resist the silent call to be by his side the moment she had stepped foot off the gunship. Though she had paused to fire half-heartedly at Dooku's solar sloop as it had burst from the bay, her true mark had been aimed at the young Jedi inside the cavernous hangar.
Anakin was her moon; descended from the skies and with such power in his proximity, he was capable of pulling emotional riptides from her heart that washed her far beyond the reaches of rhyme or reason. Her mind had stood firmly on the sound shores screaming at her to heed its call. To stop. To think.
Truth be told, she hadn't thought at all.
She had just run.
Run all out towards him, rushing past the diminutive Master Yoda as if he were a wayward rock in the deep, of inconsequential interest to the tidal flood of her relief at seeing Anakin alive. Slow to adjust to the murkier bowels of the hangar, her eyes hadn't even acknowledged Master Kenobi, who hunched over unsteadily from injuries she didn't notice, so anchored were they on his Padawan and so powerful was the pull to be near him, Anakin may as well have been gravity himself.
At the last moment, she had seen his mortal wounding, barely managing to adjust her reach to lock her arms around his neck, her body colliding with his hard enough to draw a pained grunt from him. Anakin had swayed dangerously in her emotional wake, but she had clung to him, following his movement even as it forced her onto her tip-toes. Burying her face into him, her lips had pressed lightly into the hollow of his throat, and she felt the gasp for air begin in his chest even before she heard its audible shudders. Her heart slows its precipitous pounding just enough for her to think one solitary coherent thought.
Was that a gasp from pain… or his own relief?
Anakin manages to stay standing, and only when she is certain of his steadiness, does Padmé allow herself to drop to her heels, her face hidden against his chest where she can feel the reassuring tattoo of his heartbeat against her cheek. She feels his chin nestle itself atop her head, and he sighs again – this time clearly in grateful release. As Anakin pulls her closer to him, his arm settles across her lower back, the rough-spun of his tunic chafing her torn and tender flesh. Despite the stinging protest of her raw skin, Padmé's fingers tighten their hold around his neck, her teeth set determinedly against her discomfort. After all, what are mere scratches compared to dismemberment?
Padmé knows she should step back, should slide out from under his hold and place some modicum of professional distance between them. Only when Obi-Wan purposefully clears his throat does she actually try. Yet, Anakin won't allow it. His remaining arm clutches her to him fiercely, like she is the sole reason he has remained standing to this point. That if she moves away, he will simply collapse to the ground at her feet.
That's when the shaking begins. Just a slight tremble at first. Then harder and harder, his full weight leaning more heavily onto her until her own legs quiver with the sheer effort it takes to keep them both upright.
Despite her best attempt to do so, her own grip slips and she feels the awful release as the solidness of his body against her own goes completely and utterly limp. Anakin falls hard, hitting the permacrete with a resounding thud that echoes in the stillness of the hangar.
"Anakin!" she cries, immediately dropping to her knees by his side. He raises his hand – his only hand – as if in answer. His fingers grasp desperately at empty air, before she captures them between hers, pressing her mouth to his palm in a soft quick kiss. His skin is clammy against her lips.
Anakin sighs heavily at the contact, his eyes rolling, his fingers folding weakly over her own.
"Anakin?"
No response.
Her voice seizes in her throat, unable to speak for her heart screaming in her chest.
"Anakin?!" Obi-Wan's accented voice startles her in its nearness.
She looks up to see the Jedi Knight's blue eyes watching his apprentice with mirrored worry. A clone trooper appears from the shadows, squatting next to the her while simultaneously yanking off his glove. Pressing two fingers into the sharply defined groove of Anakin's neck, he turns to the chrono on his wrist. Padmé is momentarily annoyed that clone's helmet prevents her from reading his face to gauge the direness of Anakin's situation.
"What's happening to him?" Padmé asks. She should hate how her voice vibrates with uninhibited emotion, especially in front of this company, but right now, she can't find it in herself to care.
"He's going into shock," the clone trooper says. His helmet pops up, its expressionless mien glinting faintly from the dim overhead lights. "Thirty, Ringer! Sled, now!"
His two comrades beat a hasty retreat for the Republic gunship idling outside.
"What's his pulse?" Obi-Wan asks.
"Thready, almost 170," the trooper replies, the mechanized vocoder doing little to hide the grim vitals.
"What can we do to help?"
Obi-Wan's calmness would have irritated her were she not internally panicking over Anakin's rapidly deteriorating condition. The clone trooper shakes his head.
"We need to get him to med-evac. I can stabilize him in the field but he will likely need more support than I can offer."
"To the forward command center, call ahead, we should."
All three turn to face the broken Basic speaker.
"Immediate medical attention, Skywalker needs. Delay. Afford it, he cannot," Yoda says. His long ears hang low with the solemnity of his words.
The troopers designated Thirty and Ringer return with the requested med-sled a moment later. One of the soldiers keys the control pad, the repulsor-lifts quieting to a dull hum.
"On my mark, we lift him onto the transport," the first clone says. He touches Padmé's shoulder to get her attention. "The movement may rouse him. Try to keep him still."
Padmé nods, her mouth dry with anxiety. Not letting go of Anakin's hand, she moves herself above his head so the clones and Obi-Wan can lift him from either side.
"Three, two, one. Lift!"
Padmé is glad the trooper had the foresight to warn her. The force of his body hitting the stretcher jolts Anakin rudely back into consciousness. He thrashes violently, almost tipping himself back off the floating bed if it weren't for the quick reactions of the clones and Obi-Wan. Their hands grab his legs and arms – what remains of his right arm – pinning him securely to the canvas. Anakin yelps in protesting agony at their restraint.
"Shhhh, Ani. Shhhh," she soothes. Her right hand brushes his forehead, her thumb coming to rest over his sweat-soaked temple. His eyelids flutter before his glazed blue eyes manages to focus past the pain, landing on her face.
"Padmé?" Anakin asks. He pulls his hand out of hers. His fingers raise to catch the lone tear sliding down her cheek. Forehead creasing with concern, he says, "You're crying."
Padmé half-laughs, half-chokes on a sob. Here Anakin is, gravely wounded, fighting through shock, and his primary concern is her emotional distress.
"I'm okay," she says, offering him a watery smile.
"You're crying," he says again, as if he didn't hear her reassurance. "You're…" Padmé watches his eyes roll again, and he takes one deep halting breath before going terrifyingly still.
"Ani?" she whispers, then louder, "Anakin!"
A hand gently squeezes her forearm and her head snaps around so quickly, she gives herself momentary vertigo.
"It's all right, Senator. He's put himself into a healing trance," Obi-Wan says.
She nods absently, acknowledging Obi-Wan's comment, but not feeling any sense of reprieve. Healing trance? What does that even mean? Her heart pounds in her throat. All she can think is that Anakin will be all right. He hasto be all right.
The clones are walking faster now, almost forcing Padmé to jog to keep up.
The med-sled stops abruptly, the loud hum of the repulsor-lifts all but lost next to the roar of the gunship's engines. Two more clones disembark and quickly usher them all onto the open-air deck. Anakin's prone form is hauled into the back of the transport with cruel efficiency, but Padmé quickly follows, settling herself gingerly against the back wall of the gunship and cradling his head in her lap.
The clone named Ringer drops to his knee beside her.
"You're hurt, Miss. I can tend you over…"
"I'm fine!" she snaps.
If the clone can appear surprised behind his helmet, he does. Padmé almost feels chagrined over her irritable tone - almost. But she doesn't want to acknowledge the throbbing ache of her spine, or the pulse hammering away inside her skull, or the raw stinging left behind by the nexu's claws. If she doesn't allow herself to catalogue her own injuries, she can keep her focus where it's needed most. Right now, the only wound she wants to be concerned about belongs to Anakin.
A flurry of troopers pushes past Obi-Wan and Yoda, who take seats across the deck, watching the chaos unfurl. Ringer pulls an emergency response kit from his pack and begins to tend to the young Jedi. Padmé winces as he plunges a needle into Anakin's left arm, dispensing a clear liquid without hesitation. Within seconds, she feels some tension leave Anakin's neck and shoulders, his ragged breaths evening to a steadier rhythm. She recognizes the medication as a potent blocker.
Another soldier removes his helmet – she notes the maroon cross and diagonal line on his shoulder armor that designates him as a medic - and kneels to study the lightsaber wound. Pulling a tourniquet from his pack, he applies it tightly just below Anakin's right shoulder. Methodically, he begins to peel away layers of burned cloth embedded into the young man's charred flesh. Fresh blood seeps from his areas of work and Padmé's stomach roils when her left knee begins to feel wet and warm. She distracts herself by allowing her fingers to smooth the damp blond strands of Anakin's hair.
Blaster-fire rocks the ships, its occupants forced to deal with the turbulence of an all-too close blow. Tossed viciously despite his healing trance, Anakin groans, seizing her hand, his grip bone-crushing in its ferocity. Even when the tips of her fingers begin to tingle with complaint, Padmé doesn't dare move. She feels like that grip is her sole link to Anakin, that if he can hold on that tightly, his life is not yet in danger of forfeiture.
By the time the clone stops his ministrations, her hand is completely numb
Padmé tears her eyes away from their vigil over Anakin's pain-stricken face to the medic, who turns to the two Jedi watching silently behind him.
"I've cleaned what I can, but this wound is going to need a tertiary facility. I'm going to dress it for transport and start fluid support."
"Thank you, Commander," Yoda replies.
Obi-Wan doesn't say a word as the medic hands Padmé a bag of fluids, instructing her to hold it as high as she can from her seated position. Instead of watching the clone thread a catheter into the curve of his Padawan's elbow, his gaze remains focused on her, puzzlement and something wary flickering in his blue stare. Boldly, she matches his scrutiny with her own, her brown eyes darings against his obtrusive judgement.
Anakin moans softly, pulling her attention away from his Master.
"Shhh, Ani," she soothes, dropping her fingers from his sweat-streaked brow to unapologetically caress his cheek. The creases of his skin visibly relax under her touch. Despite the calming effect she seems to have on him, Anakin still flinches as occasional turbulence buffets the gunship.
"Can you give him more blocker?" Padmé asks the trooper, now standing and holding the IV bag at Anakin's feet. With a hiss and a pop, he switches out the empty fluid bag for another.
"I'm sorry, Miss," the clone says, shaking his head. "That's all he can have for now. It shouldn't be too much longer until we are back at base."
Mutely, Padmé nods her understanding, purposely ignoring the ashen hue creeping along Anakin's normally tan face and how her own cheeks flush under the watchful eyes of the two Jedi across the deck.
Though the remainder of the flight lasts less than fifteen standard minutes, Padmé feels like an eternity has passed.
A cloud of red Geonosian dust swirls around the gunship as it sets down in the shadow of a Republic medical frigate. The group disembarks with the same hastiness in which they boarded. Her boots have barely planted themselves in the sand when the gunship departs rapidly, disappearing behind another plume of angry disturbed soil. A temporary triage has been set up along the far wall of the base. As they walk past, Padmé tries not to notice the number of wounded and dead lined up like haphazard inventory.
A clone wearing a gray military uniform appears, collecting information for the frigate's manifest, before directing them to another area for urgent medical admittance. It doesn't occur to Padmé that she isn't in that arrangement until the deck officer asks her to wait behind.
Shocked, she just stares at him dumbly, and for a moment, her head swims, his words a jumble of vowels and consonants and incoherence. Is he even speaking Basic? Blinking rapidly past the sudden fog, she thinks she may need more urgent medical care than she originally thought.
"I'm sorry, Miss," the deck officer says. His tone is polite, but the slower tempo and harder enunciation of his next words slide into one less understanding and more patronizing. "But you need to let him go now."
Her eyes follow his pointed gaze to where it lands on her own hand wrapped around Anakin's. She can practically feel Obi-Wan's and Yoda's stares boring into her back.
Her voice catches awkwardly in her throat, so instead Padmé nods and tries to relax her fingers in Anakin's fierce hold. She starts to pull her hand back when he clamps down on the contact, his fingers crushing even tighter around her own. There must be some feeling left because she winces at his desperate grip.
"I can't," she gasps. Her bones grind and she grits her teeth against the ache.
"I'm sorry, Miss," the deck officer repeats, "But…"
"I can't!" Padmé cries, then softer, as if she doesn't want to confess the next part, "He won't let go."
Ani, I'm so sorry.
Obi-Wan frowns, moving to stand by the med-sled. He places an open hand across Anakin's forehead, closes his eyes, and exhales deeply. For a moment, nothing seems to happen. And then she feels it, just the slightest release on his hold, like water slipping through her fingers. She thinks Anakin might actually let go, but he seems to realize his loosening grasp at the last minute. His whole body stiffens, his fingers clamping down around hers harder than ever. Briefly, Padmé imagines the mosaic of colors her skin will sport tomorrow. Then, she decides she doesn't care. She'd let Anakin strangle all feeling from her if it meant he was still fighting for life.
Obi-Wan's eyes open, his brow furrowed in disapproval. "He's resisting." His scowl focuses on her, as if she is the sole reason for his failure to influence his Padawan. Padmé keeps her face neutral, even as she feels her chest swell in defiance.
A movement in her peripheral vision catches her attention. With a frown on his face, Yoda approaches the levitating sled holding her motionless bodyguard. He raises one three-digit hand over his own head, pressing the palm firmly to Anakin's temple and closing his eyes, his wrinkled features relaxing into a tranquil concentration despite the continued chaos of the base around them.
Again, nothing seems to happen on the surface. Then out of nowhere, Anakin heaves a tremendous sigh and his whole body goes completely slack, his mouth opening slightly from the sudden surrender of his previously clenched jaw, his fingers uncurling around hers with abrupt apathy. It takes Padmé another uncomfortable few seconds to realize she is now the only one responsible for maintaining the inappropriate contact.
Her arm falls away from the cot quickly, the skin prickling with the sudden rush of blood back to her strained fingers, and she massages her bruised right hand with her left.
"All right, send him to outbound frigate, Delta," the deck officer says, waving them along.
Padmé doesn't move to follow the little entourage, though her heart screams at her for her stubborn stillness. She wants nothing more than to follow Anakin, to soothe his pain, to know exactly what is in store from him once they reach Coruscant, to know that he knows she didn't just abandon him on the heels of his mother's death and his monstrous wounding. But the disapproval on Obi-Wan and Yoda's faces, still fresh in her memory, makes her hesitate.
"Are you coming, Senator?" Obi-Wan asks.
The censure in her mind's eye wasn't imagined – his blue eyes are icy, challenging. She can't help contrasting them to the warm, inviting, cerulean depths of his Padawan's.
"I need to retrieve my ship," Padmé explains hurriedly. "We left it hidden in an exhaust vent outside the droid foundry when we came to rescue you."
Obi-Wan nods, then sighs heavily, beginning to peel himself away from the now-stalled sled.
"No, stay with your Padawan, you must, Obi-Wan," Yoda says, turning to face them. "Send another Jedi, I will." His round eyes fix on Padmé, not unkindly. "With the deck officer, please wait, Senator. Send someone to meet you, I will."
Padmé nods once. She and Obi-Wan exchange a last look before he turns his back. Unblinking, she stares after the trio until they all disappear from view. The emptiness in her field of vision leaves her feeling miserably bereft. When she can't stand the hollow sight any longer, she drops her gaze to her feet and stifles a choking sob with the back of her bruised hand. The sting of tears threatening to unmoor her, the abruptness of Anakin's departure so poignantly sharp, the piercing anguish smothering her almost drives her to her knees.
Yoda keeps true to his word and does not keep her waiting long. Even still, Padmé is a bit surprised to see Shaak Ti, renowned Jedi Master of the Council, approaching her with a pleasant smile. Her dark Jedi robes, made even more red by a light layer of Geonosian dust, swirl about her comfortably as she comes to a stand in front of Padmé.
"I hear we are to retrieve your errant ship, Senator," Shaak Ti says, bending at the waist in a deferential bow. Her demeanor is nothing but smooth and professional, even if the sparkle in her dark eyes lets slip the mischievous undertone of her words. Padmé eyes the Jedi Master warily, unsure how to navigate yet another breed of Jedi humor. Shaak Ti's brand of amusement is not the droll dry wit of Obi-Wan Kenobi, nor the outlandish charming bravado of Anakin Skywalker. Yet, Padmé is fairly certain that the Jedi Master is taking on this task with certain mirth.
Padmé decides to answer in kind.
"Errant though it may now be, thankfully I do remember where Padawan Skywalker and I decided to leave it," Padmé replies.
"Excellent," Shaak Ti smiles at her. "It's most unfortunate when parking amnesia afflicts pilots." She winks at Padmé conspiratorially. "Come! Let's get your ship back in rightful hands before the Jedi must atone for yet another transport Padawan Skywalker has 'misplaced'."
Unexpectedly, Padmé feels her own lips curving into an amused smile as she follows after the Togrutan Master.
The mission to retrieve Padmé's ship is surprisingly straightforward, thanks to the hasty abandonment of the droid foundry by fleeing Geonosians and the rapid infiltration of several clone battalions. Cordoned off by the same soldiers who were likely responsible for its capture, the cavernous factory sits unnervingly empty as Padmé and Shaak Ti work their way back towards the access tunnel that would take them to her ship. The vast maze of conveyor belts and clanging machinery stand eerily silent, a stark contrast to the organized chaos that she and Anakin had found themselves quite literally dropping into only hours before.
The turbolift doors open with a soft hiss to the world beyond the factory walls, and Padmé blinks against the sleek shine of the cruiser sitting in a reverse silhouette amongst the drab rocky exterior of the exhaust vents. With the factory suddenly at a standstill, the steam, so conveniently offering up its misty veil of cover, has dissipated invisibly into the upper atmosphere, leaving the H-type Nubian yacht spitefully exposed. Elegant curving lines of Nabooian engineering and design are woefully out of place among the harsh, cruel architecture housing the machinery manufacturing death and destruction.
"Did you leave the ramp down when you left, Senator?" Shaak Ti asks, startling Padmé out of her unsettling observations. "Or might we find unexpected company onboard?" The Togruta's hand moves to hover over the lightsaber attached to her belt, ready to call the weapon to bear at the slightest provocation.
Anakin would have already activated his blade.
Padmé frowns at her unbidden judgement of Shaak Ti's restraint, and steps closer to the yacht.
"We left the droids onboard to guard it," she explains. "Or to bring to the ship to us in case we needed a different extraction point." Instinctively, her hand goes to her hip in search of her comlink, her fingers coming up empty. Padmé's brow furrows, remembering the harshness with which the Geonosian sentries had pried it out of her protective grasp.
Shaak Ti sees her movement and correctly reads it for what it is. "Can you comm them with this?" She hands Padmé her own communicator.
"Yes," Padmé nods. "I've memorized the frequency to my astromech." Quickly, she keys in the code that establishes a secure direct link to R2-D2. While it beeps its call waiting tone, she absently wonders if Anakin would still remember the correct sequence to hail C-3PO. Thankfully, she doesn't have to ponder an alternate course of action for long. Artoo answers on the third chime.
The string of whistles instantly soothes her tired ears with their cheery familiarity.
"Artoo, it's Padmé. Where are you?" she says, watching Shaak Ti edge closer to the ramp. From her surreptitious position, the Jedi Master cranes her neck trying to see her way up its steep slope, hoping to catch a glimpse of any potentially unwelcome individual loitering about its pinnacle.
As the droid chortles his reply, a tinny set of footsteps emanating from within the cabin distracts Padmé investing any real effort into translating Artoo's response. The cobalt hue of Shaak Ti's blade erupts into the gloom, reflecting blindingly off of the silver hull, and Padmé is forced to squint at the figure making its way out of her ship.
"Oh Master Ani, you've returned!" a friendly voice sounds moments before its owner comes into view. The gray-plated protocol droid's photoreceptors seem to widen impossibly at the sight of Master Ti. "Oh! Oh my! You're not…"
"It's all right, Threepio," Padmé says, hurrying forward up the ramp. She places a comforting hand on C-3PO's shoulder, holding her free hand out to the Jedi Master in a gesture that assures this newcomer is not to be taken as a hostile threat. "Is Artoo aboard?"
"Why, yes, Miss Padmé," Threepio replies, shuffling about to look back up the ramp where R2-D2 appears. "We returned to the ship just as you instructed."
Padmé raises an eyebrow at Anakin's droid's remark but doesn't challenge the nuance in his statement, or the uncharacteristic silence of her own astromech, though she does note the anxious little swivel of Artoo's dome between them. There was sure to be time later to ask why C-3PO had used returned to when she was fairly confident their instructions had been to remain on. Actually, now that she thinks about it, before their sudden departure, had she and Anakin given their charges any explicit instructions at all?
Racking her memories and failing to recall the specifics, Padmé feels a sudden overwhelming urge to rest. For an infinitesimal instant, the raised faces of the worn path's stones beckon to her almost as invitingly as the soft pillows on her bed back at Varykino. Dazed, Padmé shakes herself against the growing exhaustive fog whispering temptingly at the edges of her consciousness. Her hand falls away from C-3PO's plating as she turns to face the Jedi Master patiently observing the exchange.
"Threepio, this is Master Shaak Ti," Padmé says, defaulting to a customary introduction to put her back in more control. "We have come to retrieve the ship and rendezvous back with the Republic's fleet." As she starts back up the ramp, she doesn't say that she is glad to not have had to retrieve the droids as well. Each step feels more like a trudge than a purposeful movement.
The fussy protocol droid and the calm Jedi Master follow dutifully behind, the latter watching her carefully while the former continues to fuss worriedly over the absence of his maker.
"Are you quite certain we shouldn't wait for Master Ani to return?" C-3PO continues.
"We are going to meet up with Anakin now, Threepio," Padmé says, her tone already practiced with tolerance for the droid's unending capacity for fretting. Her heart dances with impetuous hope at the mere mention of the young Jedi's name. "He went on ahead of us." Before C-3PO can further question her vague explanation, she turns to the waiting Togruta. "The cockpit is this way. I could use a co-pilot, if you wouldn't mind."
Shaak Ti inclines her head politely once. "Of course, Senator."
Padmé doesn't let her gaze linger to see what the Jedi Master thinks of the hastily succinct reason she doled out to appease the droid in regard to Anakin's missing presence. While she has no real reason to believe Shaak Ti would be privy to the outcome of the duel with Dooku as of yet, or even aware of the grave injuries sustained by Anakin and Obi-Wan, Padmé also has no real sense of how communication works within the Jedi hierarchy either. When in doubt, she figures generalities will get her by until the specifics make themselves a necessary evil.
Trying to settle her own edginess, Padmé focuses on getting the ship airborne as expeditiously as possible. Her fingers fly over the control panel with practiced ease, and soon the yacht's engines purr like an overly excited perootu kitten. No longer needing to follow the circuitous route or fly at a more clandestine altitude as Anakin did on their way in, Padmé takes the ship up and away from the Geonosis surface with deliberate concentration; there are no good memories to linger on as they ascend the atmosphere.
As if offended by her glaring disregard of it, a phantom touch ghosts over her lips, the memory of their stolen kiss refusing to be left behind on the planet below. She barely stifles a gasp of surprise with her hand, her knuckles a poor proxy for the remembered soft pressure of Anakin's mouth against her own.
Well, she amends, her cheeks flushing brilliantly when her mind conjures the devotion in his cerulean gaze with remarkable clarity. Maybe just the one then.
Padmé allows her eyes to slide sideways, subtly trying to gauge whether her current Jedi escort - one who would decidedly not share similarly fond feelings of that moment in the shadows of the catacombs – detects the sudden shift in her emotions.
If Shaak Ti had noticed anything untoward at all in the Senator's demeanor, she seems uninterested. Instead, her focus is back on the communication device she holds to her montral. Padmé cannot hear the message over the thrum of the engines and her own racing heart.
"The Endeavor has been slated for return to Coruscant," Shaak Ti says after a moment. She pockets her comlink and leans forward to check the readouts displayed on her side of the control panel. "Master Yoda would like me to see you aboard before my re-assignment."
Padmé only nods, certain that her voice will reveal the chaos currently reigning her mind and body as she tries to shelve the memory of professed forbidden feelings. Naively, she thinks she successfully hid the tumultuous spiral of sensation from her co-pilot, until the Togruta's tranquil tone resumes.
"You seem troubled, Senator."
From the navigation chair, her dark eyes watch Padmé with detached kindness. They don't rip answers from her soul like Anakin's searching stares did. The way they do, Padmé admonishes herself. He's not... Biting her lower lip to quell its betraying tremble, she can't bring herself to even think the next word in that treacherous line of thought.
"I'm feeling uneasy about the ramifications of all this," Padmé replies, gesturing to the armada hovering in Geonosian orbit beyond the forward viewport. While it's not the most pressing concern she has on her mind, there was an iota of truth to her statement. "It seems my work against the Military Creation Act has all been for nothing."
Pensively, Shaak Ti considers Padmé's despondency. "You may have lost this battle, Senator," she offers. "But that doesn't mean you have lost the war. I fear the Republic will need voices of reason like yours more than ever now that it seems we are in the midst of full-scale galactic conflict."
"I'm becoming afraid more and more some beings can no longer hear the voice of reason, even if they wanted to," Padmé replies softly. For one indiscernible moment, she wonders about exactly whom she is speaking.
"We must continue to hope that one day, they will want to listen again," Master Ti says.
It doesn't take long for a Republic Assault Cruiser to hail the small starship inching closer to its position.
"Unidentified Naboo cruiser, you are flying into the restricted airspace of a Republic military vessel. Please identify and state your purpose and destination. Over."
"This is Senator Amidala, requesting permission to dock with the Endeavor for transport back to Coruscant. I travel with Jedi Master Shaak Ti, who was escorting me while I retrieved my ship planet-side. Transmitting ID now," Padmé says, flipping the switch that reports the yacht's official designation as an ambassador transport with governmental clearances.
"Receiving, please hold current position for verification."
Shaak Ti was already cutting the sub-light engines to standby. The starship slows to a barely perceptible crawl, giving its occupants ample time to take in the might of the Republic's nascent naval fleet.
The coordinates to dock with the Republic Assault Cruiser chime through, and Padmé plugs them in to her nav console, turning all control over to her ship's autopilot. The yacht's nose slowly bears right, the red sphere of Geonosis disappearing from the port side windows, as the nav computer threads them through the orbiting fleet. Padmé counts twelve massive cruisers in her forward viewport before she gives up her inventorying when Master Ti points out the lone spacecraft floating further out amongst the stars than its brethren as the Endeavor.
Where in the galaxy did all of this come from? What did I miss when we were in hiding?
For a brief instant, Padmé stomach pits with the oppressive weight of guilt. It really would not have put her out much to occasionally have glanced at the headlines on her datapad, just to keep apprised of the Senate's happenings. In truth, she had eyed her portable work station once or twice while on Naboo – it hadn't even crossed her mind during the whirlwind that was their stay on Tatooine – but she had selfishly guarded against any sort of intrusion to the oasis she and Anakin had created at Varykino. It hadn't even been a welcome distraction during their more uncomfortable moments, so loathe had she been to forfeit that veil of bliss.
Gods, when Anakin had become so integral to her every waking thought?
A brilliant blue glare fleetingly blinds her downcast eyes as they pass through the hangar's outer shields, and she blinks rapidly to refocus her vision and her mindset. The ship crawls to a taxi before the hydraulics of the landing gear hiss loudly in the silence of the cockpit as the Nubian yacht settles itself in its designated landing zone.
"Is there anything further I can assist you with?" Shaak Ti asks, swiveling her chair to face Padmé.
"No," Padmé replies quickly and politely. "I'm most grateful for your protection, Master Jedi." She inclines her head with the necessary deference. "I'm sure your talents are needed more vitally elsewhere."
Shaak Ti returns the gesture in kind, and surprises her by resting a hand gently on Padmé's shoulder.
"Fear not, Senator," the Togruta says, her eyes softer with presumed understanding. "Master Kenobi will be returned to your security detail soon enough."
Padmé hums a noncommittal noise of agreement, once again not trusting her own voice. She supposes she should be thankful that Master Ti has incorrectly interpreted her singular focus to return to the fleet as nothing more than immediate concern for her own security.
Of course, she would. Why would she even begin to think it has nothing to do with my own safety and everything to do with returning to the company of one Jedi Padawan?
"May the Force be with you."
Shaak Ti bows once in a respectful manner before taking her leave. Despite the cool reserved Jedi Master's presence, Padmé feels her departure as conspicuously as if she had shed the comforting weight of her white woven cloak. Her shoulders shudder against the recycled chilly air wending its way up the open boarding ramp into the cabin. For the first time in almost a week, Padmé finds herself completely alone.
Usually one to find solace in the few moments of true solitude afforded to a Galactic Senator, Padmé waits for the welcome feeling of tranquility to settle over her. Instead, her nerves leap about like Wobani jumping beans, their perturbing acrobatics enough to make her stomach churn in tumultuous objection. The sedentary seconds make her skin crawl and her legs twitch. She really needs to get moving.
"Artoo?" she calls, already rising from her chair. She leans over the forward console to ensure Shaak Ti is well and truly departed from the docking bay. The Jedi Master is nowhere to be seen. "Artoo!"
In her hurry to leave, Padmé almost trips over the astromech wheeling himself into the cockpit, who squeals in surprise at their near collision.
"Oh, I didn't realize…" Padmé lowers her hand from where it flew to hover over her hammering heart to the silver-and-blue curve of Artoo's dome. "I need your help."
The little droid beeps inquisitively, rollingback slightly to let her pass through into the narrow hall.
"If I can find a scomp link terminal, do you think you could access the ship's medical database?" Padmé asks. She smiles when R2-D2 whirs an encouraging and positive sound. "Good, I just need to set the security system and then we'll go find Anakin."
Keying the necessary sequence to lock the ship, she turns from the access panel to find C-3PO watching the two of them. Even though, his face plate is static and does not allow for intricate expressions, it is not hard for Padmé to imagine the look of dismay the protocol droid fixes her with.
"Find Master Ani?" Threepio inquires, his vocabulator rising to mimic human worry. "I thought we were going to meet him?"
"Yes, Threepio, that's what I'm going to do," she replies. "I just need Artoo to help me locate which room he's been admitted to…"
"Admitted to?!" Threepio interrupts, his arms waving stiffly in alarm. "Is Master Ani all right?"
I don't really know… Her heart begins a frenetic pace and she swallows back rising bile. "I'm sure he's fine," she manages to force out. Liar, you don't know any such thing. She shivers against the pessimistic doomsayer currently driving her train of thought.
Artoo swivels to regard her, humming a note of concern. The sympathetic gesture is almost too much for Padmé to take.
"Come on, Artoo," she says, more firmly than she feels. "Threepio, please stay with the ship." He stares at her with unblinking photoreceptors. She sighs once, wearily. "No wandering off again, okay?"
"I understand," C-3PO says. "But, before you go, might I suggest a change of clothes?"
Looking down at her torn and filthy outfit, Padmé does admit the droid's counsel does hold merit. Emotional distress aside, her physical appearance must be downright alarming. She shifts, considering, hyperaware of the way the blood-stained synth-cloth peels more than slides over her left knee.
"The first person to see you is bound to take you straight to the medcenter," Threepio continues, mistaking her hesitation for rejection.
Padmé's head snaps up, and her neck spasms with the swift movement, but the delirious smile as she realizes C-3PO's wardrobe advice is actually a gift, even if it's not the promise of fresh threads on her skin. Maybe her disheveled appearance will get her into the medical ward faster than simple inquiry.
"Thank you, Threepio," she says.
Threepio tilts his head, bemused by the sudden change in her demeanor. "I'm not sure I…"
But Padmé is already racing down the boarding ramp, R2-D2 rolling along close on her heels.
Despite the numerous military personnel moving around the docking bay, no one pays them much attention as she and R2-D2 cross the expansive hangar. Most are more concerned with overseeing the loading and unloading of gunships as they enter and depart rapidly through the shields separating the controlled climate of the hangar from the void of space. Clones and droids operate on the multitude of Republic gunships that hang suspended from a massive conveyor at a practiced rhythm that fascinates Padmé as the conspicuous duo navigate their way through the bowels of the assault cruiser.
Padmé selects the first corridor she sees, and beckons R2 to follow her. It doesn't take her long to spot a computer terminal; being a military warcraft, the Endeavor's passageways were lined with a vast array of ports and docking stations to facilitate communication inside the massive ship.
"Here," she says, positioning herself in front of the dataport. Artoo totters up to the wall, his scomp link connecting to the ship's interface. "Search all admissions from medical frigate Delta."
Two clone troopers march past on patrol, and though Padmé braces for their interference, they seem more intent on their actual destination than worrying about a civilian and astromech idling in the hallway. Artoo chortles affirmatively that he's found the information she seeks, but Padmé brings her finger to her lips in warning. Only when the troopers turn down a side hall does she turn back to the waiting astromech.
"Where is he, Artoo?" Padmé asks. The binary the droid beeps in answer is easy enough for her to understand, but she doesn't want to take any chances. "Show me."
Artoo tips back onto his third wheel, his holoprojector flaring to life with a schematic of the medical deck and a red line highlighting the route to Anakin's assigned ward. Padmé studies the rotating blueprint with care, then stands searching for the nearest turbolift. Spying it at the end of the hall, she starts forward with reckless fervor, pulling up short when Artoo whistles inquiringly at her departing form. Padmé turns, a soft smile tugging up the corner of her lips. "Please go back to the ship, Artoo."
Artoo beeps a mournful wail.
"It's nothing against you," Padmé says, finding a reassuring smile for the loyal droid. "I'm not sure my presence will be entirely welcomed, so as not to cause further trouble…" She lets her voice drift off and hopes that R2's programming is advanced enough to fill in the gaps. She pats his blue dome affectionately. "Also, someone needs to keep an eye on Threepio."
The astromech chirps something that comes across remarkably evocative of a pout.
Padmé's smile widens as she takes a few steps backwards. "I'll only be a few minutes," she assures him. Walking as fast as she dares, she hurries to the turbolift at the end of the corridor. Mashing the call key for the lift, she peeks over her shoulder, grateful to see the little silver-and-blue droid heeding her request, his stout little body rolling the opposite direction.
The whoosh of the turbolift's doors pull her attention back to the task at hand. Once inside, she scans the control panel for the deck number designating the Endeavor's infirmary. The floor is close to the ship's dorsum, only a few levels below the bridge. Even though she can only see the ceiling of the lift, Padmé glances up anyway, as if she can see through the layers of metal and plastoid to catch a glimpse of Anakin, hopefully resting in his room. The instant she presses the button, the turbolift rockets upward, its speed causing her to stumble against its sleek wall. She's appreciative the walls are devoid of windows as vertigo casts its unnerving spell over her.
Closing her eyes, Padmé breathes slowly, deeply. Losing to the breathing exercise, the faintness in her head recedes, though it insists on keeping her company for the rest of the ride. Mercifully, the worst passes by the time the lift's doors open. Only when she is certain she won't collapse does she push off the back wall and exit the transport.
While the service corridor was largely devoid of life, the medical deck buzzes with activity. The constant motion makes her head spin dangerously again, and her stomach joins in the visceral coup. Padmé gags into the back of her hand, her previously one-track mind of locating Anakin momentarily sidelined as she struggles to wrest control over her rebelling body.
Weariness settling its oppressive weight along her shoulders like an unwelcome shawl, she swallows harshly, dryness chafing her throat, the grit as rough as sand.
When was the last time she had anything to drink? Or eat?
The thought of food summons a wave of nausea that threatens to make a scene in the medical lobby, and she glances around for the tell-tale illuminated sign of a public fresher. By some blessing of the universe, the needed restroom is only a few paces off to the left.
Despite the urgency of her stomach's demands, her legs trudge forward, the lassitude in her muscles refusing to be overridden. The crushing urge to just sit down for a single moment of respite almost bowls her over with its siren lure as she practically falls into the wash stall.
Gods, when was the last time she even slept?
A dark room with circular walls illuminated only just by the solitary moon gracing the Tatooine night sky. The desert was impossibly cold at night. She had been so grateful for the presence at her back – ashamedly so – of his warmth…
Anakin!
Shaking her head, Padmé mentally kicks against the oncoming black tide of exhaustion.
She needs to find Anakin. She can sleep later.
A wave of dizziness sends Padmé reaching for the counter for stability. Her palms slip on the smooth gray panels, her body collapsing against the impersonal sleekness of the fresher's entry. Wobbling beneath her, her knees buckle traitorously.
Get up, get up!
Clenching her jaw obstinately, she tries to bully her body into compliance. Her muscles laugh at her futile efforts; Padmé feels herself sliding to the floor in a controlled but assuredly downward direction. The tackiness of dried sweat and blood on her exposed skin slows her descent, and she fights feebly to push herself back up the durasteel, to get moving again, to find…
Without warning, her vision tunnels, but one last desperate cry manages to burst free from the inescapable pull of oblivion.
Anakin!