Republic Archives: Maintenance Notes on Long-Term Starship Storage

[from the General Maintenance Guide published by the Corellian Engineering Corporation]

Should circumstances necessitate the long-term "deep storage" of a spacefaring vessel, the following precautions are recommended:

Disconnect the hyperdrive motivator. Place an astromech droid aboard the vessel and activate its biweekly maintenance upkeep routine. Drain the vessel's fuel supply by flushing the fuel loop (preferred) or performing a static fire of the engines and running them continuously at no more than 50% power until the fuel loop runs dry. Remove all tibanna gas canisters (preferred) or vent them into open space. Neutralize or remove explosive bolts on all escape pod bays.

Place storage covers over any ingress points including engine nacelles, laser cannons, and torpedo tubes. Store the vessel in a dry, climate-controlled and fully sealed environment away from small animals and other pests.

Recommended startup instructions for a ship that has been in long-term "deep storage" can be found on page 96.

Chapter Eighty-One: If We're Next

Obi-Wan took a step forward, and his bare toes sank into the sand.

He felt a warmth—from beneath, as his foot plunged deeper into the dune, and from above. Glorious warmth—a thing he had not felt in nearly a year. Heat and sun and pure light shone down upon him. He gazed upward, squinting against the brilliant rays—then took another step forward. Grit and grain jammed their way in between his toes.

All around him, in every direction, stretched rolling ripples of desert. There was nothing else in sight. No life—not even the hardened plants that would sometimes dot a barren world. No structures to cast a shadow against the harsh sky. How, Obi-Wan wondered, had he managed to find himself here?

It was only when he took a third step that he realized he was dreaming.

The footfalls hadn't felt quite right. The warmth of sun and sand was distant, unfamiliar—just out of reach, as true warmth always was on the forgotten world where his body slept. The isolation, the distance—the utter absence of life underscored the truth beneath the illusion. Still, his mind had found its way here. The Force had brought him for a reason.

Every Jedi knew to search for meaning in the dreamlands.

It was not long before he found it. A figure in the distance, slogging through the sand. Even from afar, there was no mistaking the way she carried herself.

Qui-Gon was here too.

Before he'd made the conscious decision, Obi-Wan was sprinting—fighting against the sand that seemed to want to swallow him with every step he took. He opened his mouth to shout, to call out her name. To beg her to stop so that he could catch up. No sound carried forth except the howling of a desert wind.

A wind that carried with it great gusts of sand—within seconds, clear skies had become choked with dust. Obi-Wan raised a hand to cover his eyes—through the gaps, he could still see Qui-Gon's silhouette. She faced away from him, but had come to a standstill. This was his chance to catch her. To speak to her in the fleeting moments the Force had seen fit to join their minds from across the stars.

To find out if she'd seen the same things he had. To ask her what she knew.

Then there came a voice—her voice, so nearly drowned out by the rushing wind that Obi-Wan had to strain to hear each word. Two of them rose above the din:

Save him.

He tried to shout back, to ask her what she was trying to say. Even now, the words caught in his throat. Her voice grew louder, as if she'd heard his plea anyway.

You can still—

He'd nearly reached the spot where she stood. Fighting through the whirling rush of sand, he stretched out a hand to touch her shoulder.

She turned to face him—but only just. Feet still rooted in place, the image of Qui-Gon shifted her head to speak once again.

You can still save him.

Then came the sound—not of wind or words, but of a weapon. A snap-hiss that threatened to burst his eardrums. A low thwum he could feel in his chest. A great beam of crimson sliced through the whirlwind, turning grains into glass as it tore through the air.

Both Jedi screamed. Then Obi-Wan woke up.

He bolted upright, tearing the sheets away from his body. They were soaked with sweat. Patches of heat rash were strewn across his skin. He reached up to run a hand through his hair—it, too, came away damp.

And yet, he realized as he drew a ragged breath, Obi-Wan had never felt so cold.

The light of the passing moons shone through the gap in the window shutters, and Padmé turned to shield the baby in her arms from the brief surge of brightness cutting across the black night.

It was two or three in the morning—she wasn't sure and barely cared, having turned the only chronometer in the kitchen face down. Time hardly mattered anymore—she would wake and sleep in time with the cries of the children now.

At the moment, only one slept—the girl, swaddled in the torn remnants of a maintenance jumpsuit and nestled in an empty cargo crate on the other side of the prefabricated hab unit. Padmé held the boy, who squirmed and whimpered unless she paced across a room. The bedroom was too small, and so she'd retreated to the kitchen to lull the child into something resembling a restful state. And, with any luck, lull herself along with him.

Don't know if that's happening, Amidala. Though her eyelids were heavy and her body ached, her mind remained alert. Afraid.

Afraid of what she'd seen in the delivery room every time she had closed her eyes.

Afraid enough that, when the door to the porch outside began to slide open, she had to fight to keep herself from rushing over to the crib in the far corner.

You're still safe, some part of her mind whispered. It's only Kenobi.

The Jedi nodded as he stepped into the kitchen unit; silence lingered as he shuffled across the textured metal floor toward the sink. Padmé stood rooted in place, not turning to follow him as he moved beyond her.

"You don't have to come over here every time they wake up," she said, casting the words over her shoulder. "At least one of us should sleep through the night." The boy in her arms wriggled, protesting the stillness—sighing, she began to pace again.

"That's not why I'm awake," Kenobi said, keeping his voice low. As Padmé's pacing carried her to the end of the hab unit, she turned around in time to catch him plucking a pair of drinking glasses off one of the kitchen shelves.

As he reached down to place the first cup beneath the water tap, he gazed up from the sink to look her in the eye. "You should at least power on the medical droid from time to time, let it take the children off your hands."

"Yeah." It was all she could muster. Glancing down, she watched as her child reached out with one hand, yawning as he stretched. Padmé wandered back to the pair of shipping crates lined with blankets—gently bouncing with each step. She lowered the boy into the empty makeshift crib, hoping that this time he would let her leave him there for at least a short while.

When she turned around, she saw Kenobi making his way to the door, glass of water in hand. The other cup he'd filled sat atop the central kitchen table—and beside it lay the wooden pendant she'd cast aside while giving birth.

"Wait," Padmé said. Haste and silence alike carried her across the kitchen as she rushed to snatch the old necklace from the tabletop, careful not to let the pendant touch her skin lest she be burned again. She clenched the metal chain in her fist, letting the wooden carving swing back and forth in the air.

Obi-Wan had reached the door and was halfway out the hab unit when he turned back to face her. Frozen in place, framed by the door, he stared and did just as she'd asked—he waited for her to speak.

When she finally broke the silence, the necklace in her grip had nearly ceased its pendulum swing. "Are we going to talk about this?"

The Jedi glanced at his feet. "I thought you wouldn't want to."

She shook her head. "I think we have to." Padmé lowered herself into one of the nearby chairs that surrounded the kitchen table, then motioned for Obi-Wan to follow suit. "We both felt the same thing," she continued as he stepped away from the door and it slid shut behind him. "Question is: what are we going to do about it?"

His answer came swiftly. "Nothing. Not right away."

Padmé scowled and leaned back in her chair—the old metal creaked with the motion. She allowed the necklace to slide free from her grip, and as the wood hit the tabletop she felt herself flinch. Its searing heat was all too easy to recall—and as she fought to tear her eyes away from the pendant, fear clawed at the back of her mind. She pushed it aside, unable and unwilling to face the thoughts that were fighting their way toward the surface.

Obi-Wan had arrived beside her. He moved to sit before he spoke. "Signs from the Force are often more than they first seem to be. What we felt could have been . . . symbolic. A warning about events that have yet to happen."

She sat and stared, placing both elbows atop the table as she leaned in to glare at him. Is that what you're telling yourself? she thought. What she chose to say aloud instead was no less critical, still laced with incredulity. She stretched out every word as if to underscore the absurdity. "You think that was about the future?"

"I think it may have been about a possible future. One that can still be avoided."

A scoff escaped her mouth before Padmé could stop herself. "You don't really believe that."

For a brief moment, Obi-Wan looked hurt—his eyes grew wide, his shoulders slumping in defeat. Then his jaw tightened, and he looked up at her with an insistent gaze. "I just don't want to act in haste because we misinterpreted something."

"Did we misinterpret this?"

It had sounded harsher than she meant it, her unfiltered fear and fury spilling over as she reached forward to snatch the necklace off the table. She held it aloft in a clenched fist, daring its phantom heat to flare up and burn the palm of her hand. Yet the wood remained cold.

He said nothing—but the chair beneath him creaked as his gaze shifted sideways. Away from her, toward the sleeping children.

Padmé lowered her hand to the tabletop, letting the wooden pendant slide free as she relaxed her iron grip—and though it hadn't burned her, a mirror of its carved markings was now indented in her palm. She stared, sighed, and echoed her prior words.

"What are we going to do?"

Obi-Wan tore his gaze away from the far wall until his eyes came to rest on Padmé. "We could try sending a message to Bail. Perhaps he can force a vote in the Senate, put a stop to whatever's happening. It might be worth the risk." Each word was limp, noncommittal—as if he knew it was pointless to even suggest.

"The Senate didn't do that," Padmé said, gesturing to the necklace. "But I think you know who did."

"Padmé—"

"That was carved from the tree in the Jedi Temple. Someone attacked the Jedi. Who else could it be?"

"Padmé," he repeated more firmly, reaching out to clasp her hands within his own.

The growing knot in her stomach began to migrate upward, even as waves of calm emanated from the man across from her. "What if we're next?" She hadn't meant to say it out loud—she hadn't even wanted to think it. She watched as Obi-Wan inhaled deeply, holding the breath in as he shook his head.

"We're not."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Nobody knows where we are, Padmé," he said.

She pulled her hands free from his grip, withdrawing them into her lap. "That's the best you've got? The only reason we're safe is because he doesn't know where we are?"

"If he finds us," Obi-Wan said, "you and the children can run. Hide. I'll talk to him."

Her brow scrunched as she stared at him. "You don't think the Jedi at the Temple talked to him?"

"That's different," Obi-Wan said. "We're different." Desperation was seeping into his voice. "Someone must have pushed him down this path. Led him astray. You and I stand the best chance of bringing him back. He's a father now, he has to—"

"NO!"

The single word had leapt forth from her mouth as a quiet roar—harsh and raspy, low in volume but loaded with rage. It had clearly startled Obi-Wan, who was frozen in place in his chair, staring at her with wide eyes.

"No," she repeated, calmly this time. "We are not doing that. We will not use my children as pawns to manipulate him. He has no idea they exist. That might be the only thing keeping them alive."

Obi-Wan's face went pale. "You don't think he'd harm the children?"

She shrugged. "He tried to capture me. To stop me from escaping San Sestina."

"You don't know what would have happened had he managed to stop you."

"Exactly," Padmé said. "That's the problem. I don't know." She swallowed, trying to force down the lump that was rising in her throat. "And until I do—until I know he's not a threat to the kids—we leave them out of this. Understand?"

He closed his eyes. Lowered his head as if in prayer. Then slowly—imperceptibly—nodded. A sigh escaped his lips. "What's the plan, then?"

She shoved aside the fear that clawed at her gut, willing a sense of determination to take its place. "I fix the Dancer, get her spaceworthy. We get up there"—she gestured skyward—"and find a safe place to hide the kids. We connect to the holonet and find out what the hell is really going on."

Obi-Wan looked up at her. Trepidation lay behind his eyes. "And then?"

"That depends on what we find," Padmé said. She clenched her teeth, forced each word through. "Whatever it is, I'm ready to face it."

Then she paused. She was hesitant to even ask the question that sat on the tip of her tongue. She already knew the answer—already feared it, and feared where it may lead them.

She asked it anyway. "Are you?"