by Timothy Zahn
There was the aftermath of the attempted assassination on Coruscant that had taken Cordé’s life, and the private tears Padmé and Duja had shared together.
Now Duja was gone. And Padmé would have to leave her here, and would likely never be able to give her a proper funeral.
Duja would understand, and under the circumstances would certainly not want Padmé to risk her own life and safety merely for respect and decorum. But that didn’t make it any easier.
She finished her song and for a moment gazed down at her friend. Then, keeping her expression that of a compassionate stranger merely doing her ethical duty, she pulled out the data card on which she’d written the song and laid it on Duja’s chest.
And when she brought her hand up out of the coffin she had Duja’s brooch pressed invisibly into her palm. Giving Duja one final look, she turned away and headed back to her BARC.
The man and alien were still loitering by their freighter when she reached her ship. “Any luck?” the man called.
“No,” Padmé called back as she stowed the BARC into its hold. “I guess I’ll try some of the other outposts. Maybe he just messed up the name and coordinates.”
“Yeah, good luck,” the man said. “If you can’t find him, come on back. I’ll take it off your hands for a good price.”
“You wish,” Padmé said, forcing a casual cheerfulness she didn’t feel. With a friendly wave she walked up the ramp, sealed the hatch, and headed back across the sky.
But not very far. Certainly not all the way to the next outpost. This was where Duja had planned to meet, and here—somewhere—was where she’d hidden her ship.
Only now Padmé had the way to find it.
She’d traveled about thirty kilometers when she spotted a promising-looking clearing. She set her ship down at one edge and walked outside, blaster ready while she checked the perimeter for large animals or other threats. Satisfied that nothing was preparing to pounce, she tucked the blaster away and pulled out Duja’s brooch.
Duja had taken a fair amount of ribbing over the years by people who couldn’t understand why a woman who otherwise knew all the ways of fashion and elegance would wear something that outlandish in public. It was made of moldable plastoid, fashioned with the exuberance and total lack of skill of a five-year-old child.
But then, that was exactly the look Duja had been going for when she made it. A child’s loving creation, worn as a tribute by a proud and doting mother.
Padmé smiled sadly at the thought. Duja had talked about one day settling down and having a child who might make such an earnest gift for real. Now that would never happen.
Maybe one day, if the war ever ended, Padmé might find that kind of peaceful life for herself. If so, she would dedicate the first of her firstborn’s creations to Duja’s memory.
But that was the future. This was the present. Wiping away a sudden tear with the back of her hand, Padmé raised the brooch—the one piece of jewelry no thief would ever bother with—and squeezed it hard in the center.
Whether through luck or simply their long association enabling the two women to anticipate each other’s moves, Padmé had landed almost on top of Duja’s hiding place. Barely two minutes after triggering the beckon call buried deep within the brooch Duja’s ship suddenly appeared overhead, floating down on its repulsorlifts to a sheltered spot at the other edge of the clearing. It settled to a stop and the hatch popped open.
Taking a deep breath, feeling a fresh sense of loss, Padmé stepped inside.
Duja’s ship was small and plain, the kind of ship flown by billions of ordinary people across the galaxy. As in so many cases, though, appearances were deceiving. Padmé walked past the twin bunks and the compact galley, squeezed through the cockpit doorway, and slipped into the pilot’s seat. “This is Queen Padmé Amidala of Naboo,” she announced. She hadn’t been queen for years, of course, which made it unlikely that anyone else would think to use that title as an identification phrase. “Duja, talk to me.”
There was a short pause. Then, like a ghost from a lost past, Duja’s voice came from the speaker. “Hello, my lady,” she said. There was none of her usual impish humor, but only a hard-edged focus. “I’ve been poking around this area, and I believe I’ve uncovered a Separatist factory on Mokivj.”
Padmé blinked. A factory? Way out here?
“I don’t know what they’re making, or who’s in charge,” Duja continued. “But from what I’ve been able to glean it’s a top-notch operation. I’ve got the location—planetary coordinates are in the attached file—and I’ll see what I can learn about its layout and defenses before you get here.”
Padmé sighed. That search was probably what had led to her death.
“Of course, I’ll wait until you get here before we make our move against it. Depending on what we find, we might even be able to get the chancellor or the Jedi to come out and join us.”
“Guaranteed,” Padmé murmured the promise to her friend.
Because the minute Anakin heard about Duja’s death he would be here in a Coruscant second, whether or not the Council had him slated for some other duty.
“Travel safely, my lady, and I’ll see you soon.” The recorder clicked off.
For a few minutes Padmé sat silently in the command seat, gazing out at the forest and offering one final farewell to her friend. Then, slowly, she reached to the control board and pulled up the factory’s coordinates.
Duja had planned to wait for Padmé before moving against the facility. That hadn’t ended well. The smart move for Padmé now would be to send an alert to Anakin and wait until he arrived before taking any further action.
Only the Separatists were onto them now. They’d caught Duja, and the presence of the coffin outside the cantina proved they suspected she had backup on the way. Worse, they’d now seen Padmé and were undoubtedly putting two and two together. If she hung around Batuu too long waiting for Anakin, there was a good chance they’d run her down.
Even if she avoided that fate—if she took her ship into deep space, say, and hid there—what would happen to the factory in the meantime? She’d seen Separatists destroy factories and mining facilities rather than let Republic forces get them. And if this place was as secret as its location implied, it was all the more likely that she and Anakin would arrive to find nothing but smoking debris.
No. Duja had given her life to alert the Republic to this threat. Padmé wasn’t going to waste that sacrifice by sitting around doing nothing until Anakin could get free or the Separatists could cover their tracks.
Which wasn’t to say she thought she could attack the factory all by herself. Years of terrible risks and narrow escapes had proved that she was anything but indestructible.
On the other hand, the enhanced shields and heavy weaponry lurking beneath the plain exterior of Duja’s ship gave Padmé an advantage that the Separatists would never expect. Surely she could at least take a quick look and try to figure out what they were doing there.
Reaching to the control board again, she keyed for a quick preflight diagnostic. She would collect a few supplies from her own ship and send a final message to Anakin, and she’d be ready to go. A quick trip to Mokivj, a brief look around, and she’d be back. Probably before Anakin even arrived.
She smiled to herself as she squeezed back out of the cockpit. It was rare when she was able to surprise Anakin. But it was always so satisfying when she did.
* * *
—
There were two more droids waiting in the rear of the freighter. But Anakin was ready, and it was easy to sucker them into choke points where he had the advantage. Two skirmishes later, he and Thrawn arrived at the cargo bay.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t much information to be gleaned once they got there.
“If the labels are correct, these appear to contain various alcoholic beverages,” Thrawn
commented as they walked slowly between the lines of safety-webbed crates. “Does that seem odd for your Separatists?”
“Not really,” Anakin said. “Separatists drink as much as everyone else.” He picked a crate of Tevraki whiskey, popped off the webbing, and used the Force to lift it from its shelf and lower it to the deck.
“Twister-sealed,” Thrawn murmured, peering at the fasteners. “There should be an opening tool somewhere nearby.”
“Never mind,” Anakin said. Igniting his lightsaber, he carefully sliced off the top of the crate.
It wasn’t a line of bottles that glittered at him in the dim light. Instead, an orderly row of slender metal ingots filled the crate, separated by soft plastoid spacers. “Interesting,” Thrawn said. “It appears to be gold.”
“You’re right,” Anakin said, running a finger over one of the ingots.
“Is that metal valuable on your worlds?”
“It is on some of them,” Anakin said. “But mostly it’s used in manufacturing. Pieces this thin would probably be used in extruding machines for making wire or parts of high-performance circuit modules.”
“Machines of that sort will have many uses.”
“True,” Anakin said. If this was a Techno Union ship, gold ingots implied droid manufacturing. But Thrawn was right: Wires and circuit modules were used in everything from household cookers to major warships. The fact that the Separatists were moving metals didn’t tell them anything.
“Still, knowing the ship’s destination is a manufacturing facility tells us a great deal,” Thrawn said. “It indicates that Batuu is not simply a way point for finished products. Nor is it being used as a transfer point for data or personnel.”
“I suppose,” Anakin said. Fine; so it told them more than he’d thought. “I guess that’s it.”
“There may yet be more.”
“And you’re welcome to poke around as much as you want,” Anakin growled. “I’m going back to the command deck and see if Artoo’s found anything.” He turned and headed for the cargo bay hatch.
“A moment,” Thrawn said.
Anakin turned back, pushing back a flush of irritation. He’d just said there wasn’t anything more to learn back here. “What?”
Thrawn was standing in front of one of the other crates. “Do you recognize this one?” he asked, pointing to it.
“Of course I recognize it,” Anakin said with strained patience. “I recognize all of them. They’re the crates in here that we’ve just seen.”
“Indeed,” Thrawn said. “The interesting part is that we’ve seen this one twice.”
“What are you talking about?”
“A crate with these same markings was aboard one of the smugglers’ land vehicles.”
“Similar markings on similar packages isn’t that unusual—”
“Not similar,” Thrawn interrupted. “Identical.”
Slowly, frowning at the crate, Anakin walked back to him. “Are you sure?”
“Very sure,” Thrawn assured him. “Perhaps we should see what’s inside.”
“Perhaps we should.” Again, Anakin used the Force to lower it to the deck, then sliced off the top with his lightsaber. “Whoa,” he said, feeling his eyes widen as he caught sight of the thin plates inside.
“You recognize them?” Thrawn asked.
“I recognize the metal,” Anakin said. “It’s quadranium. Very hard, very dense, very valuable. It’s used for hull plates, heavy armor, and anything else you really want to stand up to blasters and laser cannons.”
“Interesting,” Thrawn murmured. “I wonder how the smugglers came to own an identical crate.”
“Yeah,” Anakin said darkly. This one, at least, was obvious. “Let’s find out.” Igniting his lightsaber again, he sliced off the front of the crate.
Just as he’d suspected. The top two layers were quadranium plates. Below that, the box was filled with scrap metal. “There you go,” he said, gesturing to the scrap. “Seems our smugglers are also thieves.”
Thrawn gazed at the crate for a long moment. “Indeed,” he said. “So we’re dealing with two groups of opponents, not one. That explains a great deal.”
“Really?” Anakin asked, frowning. “What specifically does it explain?”
“In a moment,” Thrawn said. “First, I believe you wished to see if your droid had identified this ship’s destination or origin.”
“Okay,” Anakin said. There was clearly something here the Chiss wasn’t saying. But the ship’s history—and hopefully Padmé’s location—was his first priority. “Sure. Come on.”
R2-D2 had indeed found something.
“Huh,” Anakin said, frowning at the display. “Cermau. Never heard of it.”
“Bear in mind that knowledge of this ship’s destination does not necessarily mean your ambassador traveled there,” Thrawn reminded him.
“Oh, she’s there, all right,” Anakin said with a grimace. “She and Duja both, probably.”
“That seems foolhardy for an ambassador.”
“It’s foolhardy for anyone,” Anakin said. “But that’s Padmé. She never bothers with the odds when there’s something that needs to be done.”
Thrawn was silent a moment. “She sounds like a remarkable person,” he said. “I look forward to meeting her. Still, there’s more we need to know before we travel there.”
“Fine—you stay here and study the situation,” Anakin said. “That’s my ambassador out there. I’m going.”
“A moment,” Thrawn said.
Glowering, Anakin turned back. “What now?”
Thrawn was staring at the display where R2-D2 had put up Cermau’s planetary data. “You said this information was stored in the ship’s navigational computer.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Easily accessible to anyone who searched for it.”
“Well, not easily,” Anakin said. “Artoo had to dig.”
“Does it seem reasonable that the Separatists would handle such critical data this way?”
“They weren’t expecting anyone except themselves to be in here,” Anakin reminded him patiently.
“Your ambassador was also not expecting intruders,” Thrawn reminded him. “Yet her messages were nevertheless encrypted.”
Anakin felt his stomach tighten. That was a good point, actually. “So what are you saying?” he asked slowly. “That this is just a cover for the real data?”
“Perhaps,” Thrawn said. “Ask your droid if there were any other navigational files in the computer.”
R2-D2 warbled a negative. “He said no,” Anakin translated.
“Then the data is accurate,” Thrawn concluded. “But the presumed destination may not be.”
“What do you—oh,” Anakin said, nodding as he understood. “The course points to Cermau, but their actual landing site may be somewhere else.”
“Exactly,” Thrawn said. “How many inhabitable systems are along that route?”
“Let’s find out,” Anakin said. “Artoo? Pull up a list of systems. Give me everything we’ve got on them.”
Minutes later, the droid had the results.
They weren’t promising.
“Eleven of them,” Anakin growled, running his eye over R2-D2’s list. “And you’ve got nothing on any of them except Batuu?”
R2-D2 grunted with some mechanical frustration of his own.
“It’s not hopeless,” Thrawn soothed. “You see that the Separatist have provided datafiles of their own.”
“What, these?” Anakin demanded, jabbing a finger toward the display. “You’ve got to be joking. ‘Batuu: home to ancient ruins and giant petrified black trees.’ ‘Umme: galaxy-class hunting.’ ‘Yakorki: wide selection of edible wild fungi.’ ‘Mokivj: ten moons, beautiful sunsets.’ ‘Plood: majestic seascapes.’ It’s li
ke they pulled these out of travel brochures.”
“Then we’ll need to narrow down the list,” Thrawn said.
“Starting with your captive outside?”
“I doubt he knows anything useful,” Thrawn said. “He claims to be merely an engine mechanic.”
“And you believe him?”
“The scars and burn marks on his hands tend to support his claim,” Thrawn said. “Regardless, I need a larger group for the interrogation I have in mind. Perhaps the drama currently playing out near the cantina will suit our needs.”
Anakin frowned. “What drama?”
“Five beings entered the cantina after our departure and carried the bartender away,” Thrawn said. “They appear to be awaiting his return to consciousness. From their conversation I deduce they’re associated with both the group we encountered in the forest and the four beings who assaulted us in the cantina.”
“So they did call back to Black Spire to have someone deal with us,” Anakin said, nodding.
“It is not quite so simple,” Thrawn warned. “You forget they targeted you for death. The five now with the bartender are concerned about the owners of this ship, and fear their thefts have been discovered. They’re also unclear whether you and I are associated with the shipowners, your ambassador, or neither.”
“You’re right, it sounds like we need to have a chat with them,” Anakin said.
“Indeed,” Thrawn advised. “Again, it’s not quite so simple. The human I followed to this vehicle was not alone.”
“He had a friend?”
“Four friends,” Thrawn corrected. “I believe that even now they’re listening unannounced to the smugglers’ conversation as they also await the bartender’s return to consciousness.”
Anakin looked out the viewport. A ship this size…a cargo bay this size…the one who’d come back, plus the four Thrawn said were waiting for the bartender to wake up…yes, that could very well be the entire ship’s complement.
