Chapter 32: Umbrae et Vindicta
Alderaan loomed ahead, its swirling blue-green expanse filling the viewport. A world untouched by war, still pristine in its beauty. It should have been a comforting sight. Instead, Padmé's stomach twisted at the thought of what awaited them on the surface.
She should have been afraid. Once, she would have been.
Fury simmered beneath her skin, cold and sharp, coiling tighter with each passing second. She had tried... tried... to reach him. To demand an explanation. To scream at him if she had to. But her calls had gone unanswered. Her messages ignored. Anakin, for all his power, for all his control, had simply refused to speak to her.
Her nails knifed her palms.
He had sent bounty hunters after her. His own wife.
And for what? To what end?
Padmé clenched her jaw, breathing through the blistering cold surging through her veins. She wasn't naïve. She had known for some time now that the man she had once loved—the man she had fought for—was lost and buried behind Vader's mask. She had begged him to listen, to see reason, to come back to her, and on the odd occasion, like the other night they had spent together in his apartment on Coruscant, she could have sworn he had... at least for a brief moment.
Now, he had answered her with this.
A ransom. A game. A trap.
He was punishing her. For leaving. For defying him.
The worst part?
It was working.
She wanted to scream, to tear into something, to make him hurt the way he had hurt her. She had never felt this kind of anger before—this deep, festering rage rising so fast it nearly consumed her. And she didn't understand why. The confusion was near on maddening.
The comm crackled. Ahsoka's voice pulled her from the storm in her head. "There's a lot of activity down there, Bail."
Padmé barely registered Bail's response as he flicked through the ship's scanners. Her pulse thundered in her ears. She could feel her heart pounding—too fast, too strong.
"No signs of the Imperial military though," Bail confirmed beside her. He glanced at her, nodding. "Not a Star Destroyer within range."
She exhaled sharply through her nose. Of course not. Anakin wouldn't risk something so obvious, not with Palpatine watching his every movement. No, he was waiting in the shadows for confirmation his "package" had been delivered. At least, that's what he had said to the bounty hunter.
"Then we're a go?" Ahsoka asked.
Bail nodded. "We're a go. You and the boys head down and get into position. We'll move in once we receive confirmation from you."
Ahsoka signed off, and Padmé watched the freighter streak toward the planet, disappearing below the clouds.
She hated this waiting.
She hated all of it.
She had been bargained for like she was nothing more than a possession. And the one person who should have fought for her, who should have protected her, had orchestrated it all.
They had been making progress, she was sure of it. She should never have left. She should have stayed with him, returned to Obi-Wan and the twins on Dromund Kaas, should have kept pushing, fighting.
Now matters were worse.
Now he was worse.
Her breath came hard and fast. Her skin felt tight, her fingers trembling against the swollen and visible bump in her lap. The bump shifted beneath her touch as if to remind her of its presence.
"Padmé."
Bail's voice broke through her thoughts, steady but cautious.
"You ready for this?" he asked.
She forced herself to nod.
And the instant Ahsoka radioed through confirmation, Bail flicked at the controls, poured power into the ship's engines and guided the Tantive-III from orbit into the planet's atmosphere.
• • •
Setting the ship down on the main landing pad, Bail slumped in his seat and roughly dragged his hand through his hair. He and Padmé had barely exchanged more than two words on their journey to the planet's surface. The entire time she'd seemed distant, lost in thought, her narrowed gaze fixed on the viewport ahead as he'd piloted the ship. The tension radiating from her was palpable, and in such close proximity, he'd had to fight the urge to shiver in her presence.
He might as well have been sitting next to her Sith Lord of a husband.
"That's quite an audience," said Padmé, scowling out the viewport.
He followed her gaze to outside, saw the energised group milling around the outskirts of the landing pad. His palace guards had formed a defensive barrier around the platform, keeping the crowd at bay for the most part, but a handful of HoloNet reporters had still broken through the barricades, setting up shop at the peak of where the walkbridge joined the palace entrance.
A weary sigh escaped him, and with a shake of his head, Bail pushed from his seat. "The whole galaxy knows now," he muttered. "We're going to have to move quickly before the Empire decides to intervene."
Padmé didn't answer, just rose from the co-pilot's seat and moved to follow him.
Two bounty hunters were waiting for them at the base of the boarding ramp, their weapons cocked and aimed. Bail hadn't recognised the bounty hunter he'd been communicating with, but he knew of these two: the female Palliduvan; Aurra Sing, and the amphibian like Kyuzo; Embo. He'd had enough run-ins with both of them during the war—especially Aurra. He remembered her explicitly from the time she and Cad Bane had held him, Padmé, Skywalker, and a handful of other senators hostage in the senate rotunda.
Padmé must have also recognised the pair, for she instantly came to a stop and stiffened beside him.
Clad in her signature orange bodysuit, Sing cocked her head to the side, her long, auburn ponytail swishing. "Senator Organa, Senator Amidala..." she purred, her tone sharp with malice, "how nice of you to join us."
"You didn't give us much of a choice, Sing," Bail remarked. "If any harm has come to my wife—"
Sing clicked her tongue and smiled at him. "Hush, my dear Senator. Your little woman is fine... for now. And she will continue to be fine as long as you two behave and do exactly as we say."
Embo shifted beside Sing, his dish shaped headgear rotating back and forth as he looked between the platform and the palace entrance. "Let's get this over with," he grumbled, the transpirator covering his mouth translating, and augmenting his voice. His amphibian eyes narrowed on Padmé stood beside Bail. "No Jedi left to save you now, Amidala," he remarked, his augmented voice thick with memory. "How unfortunate."
"If anything happens to us, Embo," Padmé warned, before he could stop her. "You will be the ones wishing the Jedi were still around."
Embo grumbled something unintelligible, then levelled his bowcaster at Padmé and prepared to fire, when Aurra grabbed the tip and shoved it down.
"Don't be a fool," Sing scolded, glaring at the Kyuzo. "You remember what Boba said. Unharmed. No excuses." She turned to Bail and flashed him one of her carnivorous smiles, and the sight made his spine tingle. "Now, Senators," she said, gesturing toward the palace entrance with her rifle. "If you would be so kind. Boba is waiting, and we would like to get this done before the Empire arrives."
Bail glanced to Padmé beside him, saw the cold steel in her eyes, and put his hand on the small of her back to ground her. Firm fisted, she frowned and met his gaze, and in her expression, he could see her desire to end this... to end all of this. Bail shook his head, cautioning her. Any misstep now could endanger Breha, and even if they could take out Sing and Embo here on the platform, there was no guarantee Ahsoka and her team would get to Breha in time.
Hoping Padmé would see the silent plea in his eyes, Bail applied gentle pressure to her back and urged her forward.
Angered shouts and cries sounded from the crowd as Aurra led them across the walkbridge for the palace. Protestors with placards. Reporters and the rapid flashes of their cameras. Women and children, crying for their queen, their impassioned pleading demonstrating their support.
Keeping his eyes to the pavement, Bail pressed forward, his boots heavy as though made of duracrete. With a sigh, he glanced up, caught sight of Sing's ponytail swishing down her svelte back. Under his breath, he whispered a thought to Padmé "Do you think he intended for this to be so public?" he asked, referring to Vader.
Padmé clenched her jaw, clearly catching his meaning, but she didn't look up. "I doubt he put that much thought into it."
Ouch. If it wasn't for who her husband was, Bail might have almost felt sorry for him, the acid in her tone enough to make any man wince. He fought back a shudder, turned his attention to the HoloNet crew gathered by the palace doors. They called out to him, then to Padmé, trying to illicit a response.
Bail silently cursed. Vultures. The lot of them. Anything for a story.
Then a flash of brown amongst the HoloNet reporters suddenly caught his eye. A cloaked and hooded figure concealed within the crowd.
Ferus.
They were ready.
Discretely, Bail met the Jedi's stare and nodded. And as quick as Ferus had appeared, he was gone, his robed figure disappearing into the mass of surging bodies.
Half a minute later, Aurra Sing stopped at the palace entrance and opened the doors. Stepping aside, she waved her rifle threateningly toward the grand hall within.
"Get inside. Now!" Sing ordered. "Move it, Senators."
Hold on, Breha, Bail thought, as he, Padmé and Commander Bly were ushered into his home at gun point. We're coming.
• • •
The distant roar of the crowd was a dull, restless murmur beneath the howling wind. It swept through the trees, rustling the canopy above as Ferus emerged from the shadows, his boots crunching softly against the damp underbrush.
Ahead, Ahsoka and the rest of their team waited just beyond the tree line, crouched low, their focus pinned on the looming silhouette of the palace. They had chosen their vantage point carefully—fifty meters out, concealed by dense foliage, with a clear sightline to their ship in case things went sideways. And things always went sideways.
"They're here," Ferus said as he reached them, his voice low but firm. "Two bounty hunters just escorted them inside."
Ahsoka, Rex, Wolffe, and Caleb were gathered around a portable scanner, the flickering hologram of the palace casting an eerie blue glow over their faces. Ferus stepped closer, his eyes tracking the shifting data.
"She's in there," Ahsoka murmured, lifting her gaze to a balcony perched high above the courtyard. Her montrals twitched slightly as she focused. "Three lifeforms. One in the room with Breha, another in the next."
Ferus exhaled sharply. "That makes four bounty hunters."
"From what we can tell," Rex agreed, crossing his arms. "But we won't know for sure until we're inside."
Ahsoka met Ferus's gaze, and they exchanged a wordless understanding. Neither of them wanted to drag this out longer than necessary.
"You ready?" she asked.
Ferus pulled the ascension gun from his belt, his eyes flicking to the balcony overhead, tracing the clean lines of the palace walls, analysing angles, distances. The place was a fortress—but no fortress was impenetrable.
"Ready when you are," he confirmed.
Ahsoka stepped beside him, casting a glance at the ascension gun in his grip. A smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.
"Come on," she called over her shoulder to Caleb and the clones. "Let's remind these bounty hunters who they're dealing with." Then, quieter, she added to Ferus, "See you at the top."
And with that, she moved.
Ahsoka didn't hesitate—she crouched, then launched herself upward, the Force rippling around her as she shot toward the balcony in a blur of motion. No wasted effort. No excess energy. Just the precision of a warrior who had done this a hundred times before.
Ferus didn't watch her land. He was already in motion, firing his ascension gun, his grip steady as the cable locked and pulled him skyward. Beside him, Caleb and the clones followed suit, their movements practiced, their timing precise.
As they soared toward the upper levels of the palace, Ferus's pulse quickened.
Inside, the bounty hunters were waiting.
And he was not about to disappoint them.
• • •
Never before had his home felt so cold.
The polished stone walls of the palace had always been a sanctuary, a place of order and civility, but now they were suffocating. As Bail trudged forward, his gaze flitted between the sharp, angular presence of Aurra Sing ahead and the array of family portraits lining the passage walls. The Organa lineage loomed over him, frozen in time, their painted eyes shadowed with judgment.
They were watching.
Condemning.
Not for his failure as a ruler—but as a husband.
He forced himself to look away.
Instead, he risked a glance at Padmé. She walked beside him, silent, her face a mask of unreadable resolve. But he knew her well enough to see past it. The way her hands curled slightly into fists at her sides. The way her jaw tightened, shoulders rigid with barely contained emotion.
She was holding herself together with sheer willpower.
And what else could she do? What else could either of them do? She was here as a ransom, her very existence leveraged against Breha's life. But what haunted Bail most wasn't the injustice of the situation—it was the undeniable truth that none of this was surprising.
Because of course, Vader had done this.
Of course, he had sent bounty hunters after his own wife.
To Padmé, that knowledge must have been devastating. To Bail, it was only confirmation of what he had always known.
Nothing was beneath Vader. Nothing.
Bail had seen the worst of him. Had watched a Jedi Padawan gunned down in the temple purge, had witnessed atrocities so senseless, so cruel, that he could no longer separate Anakin Skywalker from the Sith Lord he had become. He had long since abandoned the naïve hope that there was anything left to salvage.
And yet, Padmé hadn't.
She still believed.
Her stubborn loyalty, her relentless determination—it was the only explanation for why she remained. Why she still looked for Anakin beneath the mask, why she hadn't fled into the deepest reaches of the Outer Rim and never looked back.
He understood loyalty. But this?
This was devotion to a man who did not deserve her.
The thought twisted in him, dark and selfish. Because Bail did not just want her safe. He wanted her away. Away from the Empire. Away from the shadow of Vader. Away from the man who had claimed her, possessed her, and twisted her love into something toxic and consuming.
A man who had never deserved her.
Bail leaned closer, voice barely above a whisper. "Are you alright?"
Padmé flicked her gaze to him, just for a moment. "I should be asking you that," she murmured. "You're the one whose wife is being held hostage."
He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. She wasn't wrong. She rarely was. "I'm coping," he muttered, though the words rang hollow. "I just hope Breha is okay."
Padmé turned fully to him now, her expression cold and sharp, but beneath it—something else. Something raw.
"She had better be," she said, her voice low, distant. Then, just as quickly, she looked away, as if ashamed of her own vehemence. A moment passed, and then—softer this time—"I'm sorry, Bail. This shouldn't be happening. It's... my fault. I should never have left—"
"No." He cut her off before she could finish. "Don't apologise. I won't hear it."
He would not have her apologising for him.
Not now. Not ever.
The turbolift chimed ahead, and Aurra Sing jerked her blaster toward the open doors. "Inside. Now."
One by one, they stepped into the lift, forced into tight proximity as Embo sealed the doors behind them. Unease filled the cramped space. Bail clenched his jaw, his thoughts as unrelenting as the walls closing in around them.
Breha was up there, waiting. And Padmé—Padmé was slipping further from his reach. And Force help him, he didn't know which truth was worse.
• • •
The pale light of Alderaan's early morning spilled across the balcony, glinting off the floor-to-ceiling windows that separated them from their target. A faint breeze stirred the curtains, shifting the fabric in slow, hypnotic movements. The open window was their access point. It was also an invitation to be seen.
Ferus crouched beside Ahsoka, his gaze sweeping the room beyond.
"The chair in the centre," Ahsoka whispered. "You see her?"
His stomach tightened.
Seated, gagged, and bound to an ornate chair in the middle of the living room, was Breha. The long lengths of her mahogany hair pulled back, pinched into the gag's crudely tied knot at the back of her head. Thankfully, other than her hair, she appeared relatively unscathed. Her pastel blue dress was still clean and neatly pressed, with none of the notable marks, tears, or even blood stains one usually associated with being kidnapped.
"I see her," Ferus murmured. He swallowed and looked around the room.
There—by the far door. A towering reptilian figure with yellow-green scales wearing a white flight suit. A Relby-v10 Mortar gun slung over its shoulder.
"There," Ferus said, keeping his voice low and pointing to the figure. "By the door. Must be our bounty hunter. Trandoshan by the looks of him."
"Bossk..." hissed Ahsoka, frowning. She stiffened beside him, her narrowed blue eyes darkening. "I should have known his slimy hands would be all over this."
So, Ahsoka knew this bounty hunter? Good. Hopefully, that also meant she knew of a way to take the blasted lizard down—before he raised the alarm.
The clinking of armour and the thud of boots on stone echoed behind them. Looking over his shoulder, Ferus saw Rex, Wolffe, and Caleb scaling the balcony railing. The trio moved quickly. They retracted their grappling claws, moving forward to take up positions at their rear.
"Is that who I think it is?" Rex asked, crouching beside Ahsoka.
"Sure is," Ahsoka whispered. She reached for her belt, grasped the cylindrical hilt of one of her lightsabers. "And you know what that means, Rex."
"That Boba Fett isn't too far behind," Rex muttered. He pulled out his pair of DC-17s, got them ready. "What are you thinking, Commander?"
"It feels like a trap," answered Ahsoka, a playful edge to her hushed voice. She tilted her head, her montrals twitching, gave the clone a wry smile. "And you remember our rule on traps."
• • •
The turbolift chimed and came to a stop. Bail sucked in a sharp breath, his hands trembling as the weight of Breha's captivity finally crashed down on him. He had managed to hold himself together for most of their mission, but now, faced with the reality of seeing his wife bound and restrained—possibly injured—he was losing the battle.
Aurra Sing and Embo moved the instant the doors slid open. With weapons raised, they moved aside, gesturing for Bail, Padmé, and Commander Bly to advance.
But Bail didn't move.
He couldn't.
Frozen, he stared at the lone armoured figure in his foyer. The bounty hunter. The man who had laid siege to his home and taken his wife hostage.
A Mandalorian.
Or at least, a caped man in battle-worn Mandalorian armour—painted predominantly green, accented with yellow and red. A domed helmet, scarred by combat and painted to match his armour, included a red-and-black T-shaped visor and a small, pull-down targeting sight. Whoever this bounty hunter was, it appeared he had seen his fair share of battles. Moreover, his apparent survival suggested he was quite good at it.
Good for the bounty hunters—not so good for him and Padmé.
"Move!" A sharp bark from Sing jolted Bail back to reality.
Huddled together with Padmé, Bail shuffled forward, their group coming to a stop on the plush heirloom rug just ahead of the turbo-lift.
"Disarm them," the Mandalorian ordered. "And secure Senator Amidala."
Fury flared in Bail's chest. Instinctively, he pulled Padmé in behind him, shielding her, even as Embo and Sing moved in to confiscate their weapons. The commander mirrored Bail's stance, refusing to surrender his blaster and closing in protectively around Padmé. He trained his weapon on the bounty hunters, momentarily halting them in their tracks.
"Now hold on just a karking minute!" Bail snapped, turning his glare on the Mandalorian. "Where is the queen? What have you done with her?"
The kriffing bounty hunter didn't respond.
Heart pounding, Bail curled his hands into fists and stood his ground. "No one touches Senator Amidala until we see my wife. That was the deal."
Still, the Mandalorian remained unmoving, silent behind the impassive face of his helmet. Then, at last, he spoke—his voice cold, unsettlingly similar to that of the clones.
"Nothing personal, Senator," he said. "I am not here to negotiate—"
Bail saw red. "Nothing personal?"
His temper flared, his composure cracking. This was his home. Breha was his wife. How could it not be personal? "I fail to understand how it could be anything but personal! You invade my home, threaten my staff, kidnap my wife, and hold her for ransom!"
His whole body trembled with adrenaline. Drawing in a breath, he forced himself to steady his shaking hands. He was a senator, staying collected in times of stress was his profession. It was time to take control of the situation, well, as best he could in his current predicament.
Bail pulled out his comlink, hovered his finger over the keypad.
"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't summon my palace security and have you and your goons arrested," he demanded. "I'm sure Emperor Palpatine would be very interested in hearing about this little stunt of yours. Especially when it involves two of his Imperial Senators."
Sing let out an angry growl. "I've had enough of this!" Raising her blaster, she rushed toward Bail, clicked off the safety and aimed for his head. "Hand Amidala over, or die."
The sudden whoosh and click of a blaster sounded as Commander Bly readied for battle.
The Mandalorian shook his head at Sing, cautioning her. Then, when Sing finally backed down, he returned his attention to Bail. "This can be as easy or as difficult as you make it, Senator," he warned. "Either way, Amidala is coming with..."
And before the bounty hunter could finish, a loud boom sounded from the other side of the wall. The sounds of blaster fire, clashing lightsabers, angry shouts, and crashing furniture filled the air.
All eyes turned to the twin doors separating the foyer from the main sitting room.
"Embo!" the Mandalorian ordered. "Get in there and check on Bossk."
• • •
Ahsoka ignited her white lightsabers. "Hey! Lizard-breath!" she announced, her taunting voice carrying over the sudden snap-hiss and thrum of her twin-blades. "You're a long way from your boggy swamp."
Bossk jerked to face her, his ugly, scaly complexion twisting in confusion. His snout wrinkled; jagged teeth bared in a low snarl. Even as he unslung his weapon and aimed toward the balcony, his beady yellow eyes flicked left to Ferus, then right—past Ahsoka to Caleb. His clawed finger twitched for the trigger, ready to fire.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Ferus warned, flicking the actuator on his own lightsaber and shifting into stance.
A second snap-hiss echoed as Caleb joined Ahsoka, taking a position on her opposite side. The three Jedi formed a line across the balcony, blocking the bounty hunter's escape. Ahead in the sitting room, hidden behind the modular sofa, Rex and Wolffe waited for Ahsoka's signal to attack. Breha moaned and struggled against her restraints, her pleas for help muffled through the gag.
Hearing this, Bossk lunged.
He was on the queen in an instant. Pressing the muzzle of his blaster to her head, he growled something guttural in his native tongue, a low, menacing warning.
"You can't win, Bossk," said Ahsoka. "Step away from the queen, and we'll let you go."
But Bossk wouldn't hear it. He shook his scaled head. Hissed an insult. Narrowed his eyes on Ahsoka.
The Force darkened around the Trandoshan–just as it always did when a being was preparing to kill. Ferus stiffened, tightened his grip on his saber.
Breha was about to die.
"NOW!" yelled Ahsoka.
Rex sprang from behind the couch. "Eat this!" he yelled, throwing a small metallic ball at the Trandoshan.
With a metallic clink and a clang, the device bounced and clattered to the floor. Bossk hissed in alarm. He jumped back, his reptilian gaze snapping downward...
"BOOOOM!"
The ball exploded.
Black smoke flooded the room. The pressurised plume shot up to the ceiling, its smoky haze swallowing and obscuring everything it touched. Bossk snarled in rage. He opened fire, releasing a sudden and intense barrage of blaster fire. Red bolts spewed across the room, lit up the smoke in blazing lines of crimson plasma.
Working in tandem, Ferus, Ahsoka, and Caleb swiftly broke into motion. Their lightsabers weaving and swirling through the air in a synchronised dance, they held their ground on the balcony, answering and deflecting each shot with effortless precision.
Mid-parry, Ahsoka shouted, "Rex! Get the queen!"
"On it, Commander!" replied Rex. He and Wolffe sprang into action, keeping low as they moved along the back of the sofa, using it for cover to reach Breha.
"I've got your back!" barked Wolffe. A second volley of blaster fire erupted, this time aimed at Bossk.
But the Trandoshan didn't switch targets—he kept his focus locked on the Jedi, firing relentlessly.
"Got her!" called Rex.
Maintaining his position, Wolffe continued suppressive fire until Rex had secured the queen. From the smoke, the queen appeared, her arm resting on Rex's shoulder as he guided her to the balcony.
Still firing, Wolffe called "You clear?"
"Clear!" Rex answered, sitting the queen down behind the closed windows, safely out of range.
Wolffe yelled again, "Have a seat!"
With a powerful kick, he sent the ornate chair hurtling through the haze. A thump and crash followed as Bossk fell backward over the furniture.
The blaster fire ceased.
The sitting area doors slid open, revealing a silhouetted figure standing in the doorway.
"Bossk! What's going—"
The Trandoshan scrambled for the exit.
"He's getting away!" shouted Wolffe.
"No, he's not." Ahsoka stretched out a hand, the Force surging through her.
Bossk's feet left the ground.
With a startled roar, the Trandoshan was yanked backward across the room. He hit the sofa hard, flipping the seat and landing with the cushions in a tangled heap. When the humanoid-lizard opened his eyes, a thrumming beam of brilliant white was angled for his throat.
Ahsoka loomed over the defeated Bossk, her weapon poised for the kill. "Don't move."
• • •
"Jedi!"
The startled cry barely left Embo's mouth before the Force hurled him backward. He smashed against the far wall with a shuddering crack, his dish-helmet skittering and spinning across the floor like a saucer.
Padmé suppressed the smile threatening to appear. The cold satisfaction of seeing Ferus step into the foyer, lightsaber thrumming at his side. Caleb emerged from behind him, followed by Ahsoka. Thankfully, Ahsoka had drawn down the hood of her cloak, concealing her identity.
"Boba Fett." Ahsoka's voice was durasteel wrapped in synth-silk. "Long time, no see."
Her twin blades hung loose at her sides, humming like distant engines. Padmé noted how carefully Ahsoka surveyed the room, cataloguing threats, assessing them, just like Anakin.
"You must've been offered quite the payout to attract Sing and Embo."
Fett's blasters were out in a heartbeat.
"I should have negotiated a bigger fee," Fett bit back, his voice unmistakably smug through his helmet, "Jedi fetch a high price these days. The Empire's been good for business."
Padmé's pulse thudded once in her throat. The Empire. Anakin. Just how many times had he hired this bounty hunter? And was it always to hunt down Jedi? Again, a surge in her belly—a reminder—she ignored it.
"Not today it isn't," said Ahsoka. She snapped her sabers back into guard, and Ferus and Caleb moved to flank her.
"Why don't you lower that hood?" Fett asked. "Some of you are worth more alive... than dead."
"How about you surrender," Ahsoka coolly responded, "and we don't kill you?"
Fett chuckled low. His visor shifted to Ferus and Caleb. "You two—I remember." He looked between them. "Uscru District. Outside that bar. Sniffing around like you were looking for trouble."
"Yeah?" Caleb snapped. "Well, trouble found us. No thanks to you!"
Boba Fett gave a careless shrug. "No offence, kid. Jedi stand out in a crowd. I had to know if you were worth the effort."
"So, you're Vader's assassin now? Just an Imperial gun for hire?" Ferus demanded. "Hunting down Jedi like beasts for slaughter?"
"I have many contacts," Fett replied nonchalantly. "The Empire has... deep pockets."
"Deep enough to kidnap an Imperial Senator's wife?" Ferus pressed.
A pause. Rehearsed. Non-committal.
"Possibly."
Padmé swallowed, tensed. Another flutter in her belly, stronger—a warning. She didn't get the chance to think on it. Beside her, Bail moved.
"You kriffing bounty hunting slime!" Bail jerked out his blaster, aimed for Fett...
"Bail—No!" She tried to stop him.
But was too late. Back on his feet, Embo fired off a shot, knocking the pistol from Bail's grip. Bail howled and stumbled back, collapsed to the ground with a thud.
The room descended into chaos. Bolts of searing plasma bounced and ricocheted around the room, hitting walls, windows, piercing myriad old furniture pieces lining the foyer.
"No!" Padmé gasped, and went to Bail. Ignoring the furious battle suddenly unfolding around her, she dropped to her knees at his side and cradled his head in her lap. "Bail, speak to me," she pleaded. "Are you alright?"
"Just a burn," he groaned, pained, his eyes closed. He clutched at his chest, covering the blackened scorch mark on his tunic. "I'll... I'll be fine."
She grabbed his arm, went to lift him. "Come on. We have to get you out of here."
"My lady—Get down!" came Bly's urgent command as he shuffled at her back.
Padmé ducked, just in time—a stray blaster bolt whizzed past her head. Chancing a glance, she looked up, spotted Ahsoka battling with Boba Fett, her white lightsabers spinning and twirling wildly against his assault. Ferus and Caleb had gone after Embo, the heavy bolts from his bowcaster giving them a serious workout.
She couldn't see Aurra Sing—the Palliduvan must have still been behind her. Hopefully, Commander Bly could keep her busy long enough to get Bail out of here. She turned again to Bail, draped his arm over her shoulder, tried to hoist him up...
A rush of footsteps...
More blaster fire...
"Stay back!" came Bly's voice again. Urgent. Insistent. The steady rap of his blaster repeated over and over as he fought desperately to provide cover. He shouted "I said, stay back!"
Bail was on his feet. Padmé fixed her eyes on the doors ahead and helped him hobble toward the living room...
A pained cry, then a whump and a crash. Her heart raced.
Bly was down.
She couldn't stop to check on him. Couldn't stop to settle the sudden and insistent churning in her belly. The living room was less than two metres away. They were going to make it.
"Almost there," Padmé said to Bail. He was finding his strength again, leaning on her a little less, his stride faster, more secure. She could tend to his injuries later, for now she just needed to get him safe. "Just a bit further."
There was a sudden flash of white.
...blinding...
...paralysing...
Then...
Padmé's whole world went black.
• • •
Ahsoka crouched behind a toppled antique writing desk to catch her breath. Fett was good. Really good. Even better than she remembered. And now, they were at a stalemate.
Not that she couldn't take him down, she could vault over the writing desk and be on the clone bounty hunter in a matter of seconds—pin him down in the corner and decapitate him just as Master Windu had his father on Geonosis. But Bail and Padmé had made it abundantly clear—no-one was to die by their hand. And Boba Fett was not the type to surrender. He would fight and fight until one of them was dead, or had managed to escape.
Hence, the stalemate.
And to make matters worse, she couldn't see a blasted thing.
The foyer was full of smoke. Thick. Hazy. Stinging. No matter how many times she rubbed the tears from her eyes, her vision didn't improve. If anything it made her eyes water more.
"Fulcrum!" Bail yelled out to her.
She looked around for him, squinting through the haze, but it was pointless. She was flying blind.
He yelled something again, when simultaneously, a volley of blasterfire slammed into the writing desk at her back. Ahsoka stiffened against the impact, braced her hands on the floor. The varnished wood began to smoulder, the toxic stink mingling with the already choking smoke. Coughing, she covered her nose and called out to Bail, "What?"
No response.
Then, Fett paused his attack. In the distance, a comlink chirped. Then a voice. A female.
"Boba, time to go!"
It was Sing. That was her voice crackling over the comlink—she would recognise it anywhere.
Wait! If she was calling Fett, that could only mean...
"I've got her," Sing continued. "East wing corridor—turbo-lift near the platform. Hurry up and get down here, I need backup."
"On my way," Fett answered. He called out to the Kyuzo, "Embo! We've got what we came for. Get to the ship."
Blast it! Sing had Padmé. She must have used the battle as a diversion to escape into the turbo-lift. And now she was attempting to flee offworld and hand Padmé over to the Sith for the bounty.
Ahsoka's heart thumped—hard, and fast. Questions swimming dangerously in her mind. What did the Sith want with Padmé, anyway? Why was she suddenly so important? Had Anakin survived? Was all this some kind of sinister plan to use her as bait to lure him out of hiding?
She shook her head, banishing the thought. There'd be time for questions later. Right now, she needed to focus. Padmé was in trouble, and there was no way in hell she was going to let the Sith get their hands on her.
Drawing on the Force, Ahsoka used it to augment her speed, leaping over the writing desk and charging toward Fett.
But he was expecting her.
He fired once, then twice, each shot deflected by her sabers on the run. Then, spinning around, he aimed for the decorative window. With two rapid blatts from his blaster, the leadlight exploded, spraying the foyer in metal and bright shards of coloured glass.
Ahsoka stopped for all but a second, pausing to shield herself.
In that instant, Fett jerked to face her. He activated his jetpack; a roar of blue flame propelling his feet from the ground.
"See you around, Jedi," he said with a mock salute, then turned and flew out the window, his flaming rocket boosters carrying him high into the air outside.
He wasn't getting away that easily.
"Ferus!" Ahsoka yelled, sprinting after Fett. She bounded for the window, landed in a crouch on the open ledge, then drew on the Force and prepared to jump. "Forget about him—they've got Padmé!"