A HAND AGAINST DESTINY
Palpatine smiled warmly at the woman who sat with him, pleased that she was no longer
afraid to do so. Extremely versatile and at ease in almost any diplomatic situation, she
stood tall and solid, in her early thirties, a strong, sizable woman even by the standards of
her homeworld. Her facial features appeared sharp, well defined, and her dark eyes
augmented the lush ebony falls of her uncommonly long hair.
As usual, Palpatine found it difficult to take his eyes off of her finely-shaped form, clad
today in red and black leather, the top red, with a large marquis of black inset into each
long, puffed sleeve, and the tight black leather slacks sporting the corresponding red
leather marquis design along their sides. Her sleek black boots had been her footwear of
choice for as long as he had known her, even when he'd first met her when she was just
a teenage girl still on her father's estate. Yet she could do just as well in a ball gown and
jeweled slippers, and it would be in such that he would require her services once again.
Though his eyes stayed fixed upon her, his breathing quickened, and his bodily instincts
responded to her in their own ways, Palpatine dared not take her. Her husband had
proved himself indispensable as perhaps his brightest and most loyal protégé, his best
military tactician, and one of his most lethal covert assistants. Yet sometimes he required
a softer yet deadlier touch that neither the masculine nor the military could provide.
They sipped their stim tea casually as the Chancellor made his needs known. "Anakin has
become . . . distracted, and so this must be rectified if he is to be of any further use to us."
The woman opposite him nodded in understanding. “I’ve sensed it, too,” she
acknowledged.
"This distraction will be in attendance at the upcoming Gala Aldera, to which you and
your husband have also been invited, on Alderaan."
“Senator Amidala! That sniveling little idiot is still meddling in our affairs? I thought we’d
managed to gain Anakin’s better judgment on that matter.” She sat back in her chair,
sipping her tea, smiling menacingly. She set the glass aside. "What would you have me
do, Your Excellency?"
"I've obtained her DNA profile from Senate's central personnel archives, and have bade
my engineers on Byss concoct an agent that will work within that code to disassemble the
pathetic creature from the inside out!"
The young woman in red and black threw back her head and laughed openly, evilly.
"Excellent!" She leaned across the garden table between them, lowering her deep, rich
voice suggestively. "And how shall I administer such agent?"
Palpatine reached into his robe pocket and withdrew a beautifully bejeweled and brilliant
cut crystal perfume decanter, the small variety that fits into a lady's evening handbag.
"Such a beautiful thing!" his companion observed, ogling it as it glittered in the afternoon
Coruscant sun.
"According to your husband, it contains your favorite fragrance--infused with the
engineered spores that will eliminate this lascivious and noisome Padmé Amidala!"
"But Cos, if I spray my cologne on her, won't that be rather obvious?"
"No, no, my dear," Palpatine began to clarify. "You shall simply get her alone, perhaps in
the powder room, yet close to you, and spray it on yourself. It won't harm you, and the
agent is strong enough to accomplish our end if you administer it in this way."
She shook her head, smiling cunningly at him. "Of all things you devise!" she mused.
"Your reward," he said as he set the jeweled bottle on the table between them. She'd
always been weak for trinkets, he knew, but she knew that each such trinket she earned
also came with some sort of career-related benefit for her husband--her soul mate--the
dearest being to her in all the universe. But the Chancellor must never know how dear,
else they may suffer the same fate pending Anakin and Amidala.
* * *
The Gala Aldera proved to be everything the tabvids and mainstream media speculated it
would be. Fabulous, luxurious, and grand, the Great Hall of the Royal Palace of Alderaan
that evening bore a spectacle of the finest in decor, with chamber music and crimson
carpets to caress the ears and feet of the esteemed guests, and the very best in food and
drink to satiate, and impress. Indeed, Bail Organa had outdone himself this time.
Senator Padmé Amidala of Naboo stood near him, yet slightly in the background, in an
elegant but unobtrusive ivory gown with delicate lace embroidery, her hair intricately
interwoven into a lace headdress with a short veil that partially covered her face.
A striking couple entered the hall then, the tall, thin man in his full dress military uniform,
and the woman in a flowing gray satin ball gown with silver trim, a delicate metallic
evening bag, and an elaborate headdress. Her exceedingly long black hair required such
imposing finery. The two definitely looked as though they belonged together. Padmé
turned away as the announcer called out, "Governor and Lady Tarkin of Eriadu." And just
behind them, “Lord Treasurer and Senator Tarkin of Eriadu.”
Lady Thalassa Tarkin immediately began to scan the hall for her quarry. With that in her
sights, she turned to the woman behind her. “Shayla, is that Senator Amidala?”
Senator Shayla Paige-Tarkin turned to acknowledge the question. “Yes, unfortunately.”
“Introduce me, would you? I simply must find out who her stylist is!”
“Well, all right, but I wouldn’t be seen to cavort too long with such rabble were I you.”
Oblivious to her involvement in the plot, Senator Page-Tarkin led Lady Thalassa in
Amidala’s direction.
* * *
The very sight of Lady Tarkin made Amidala's blood run cold in her veins. She'd always
harbored an intense and suspicious dislike for the severe, dark-haired Phelarian woman
who had regularly made company with the Supreme Chancellor over the years. After all,
many people were wary of the woman who wielded the galaxy's primary megonite supply--
a powerful organic explosive on her native Phelarion. A large corporation, production
facility, and labor colony had been her birthright as the daughter of Lady Iryani Druscill
Motti and Baron Nostremi Octovano. Her marriage to the likes of Wilhuff Tarkin had been
an oddity indeed—no formal announcement, no public event. Most interested beings
considered the strange marriage nothing more than a business arrangement, giving the
Tarkin clan access to the political and financial assets of the Motti lineage and the Mining
Guild. Next to Lady Thalassa, Wilhuff seemed nothing more than a plaything among her
vast collection of trinkets and curiosities. And yet, there was something between those
two, something intangible, something they kept to themselves. Something sinister.
Padmé put on her Political Face as Senator Paige-Tarkin and “Madame Megonite,” as
Lady Tarkin was often dubbed, approached. Unlike Thalassa, Shayla proved to be
nothing more than a bureaucratic puppet, saying and doing exactly as her handlers back
on Eriadu directed her. She could be both melodramatic and demure in the same sitting,
and certainly preferred the trappings of her role—the banquets and parties and fancy
robes—to the actual business of representing the Seswenna Sector. That she
contentedly left in the capable hands of her husband, Nolan, and his cousins Wilhuff and
Gideon.
* * *
“Yes, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Tarkin,” Padmé addressed Thalassa in her
Political Voice. “Your contributions to the war effort are certainly not lost on any of us
here.”
“Whatever it takes to blow those vile Separatists clear out of the galaxy!” Thalassa
declared. “But enough of the war for tonight. Senator Organa has provided us with a most
welcome respite this evening, no?”
“Quite.” Padmé did not wish to make more conversation with this one than necessary.
“That gown is absolutely stunning, Senator! And the veil so delicate! Just who might you
be wearing this evening?”
“Oh, excuse me, my dears,” Shayla cut in, “but I really must go speak with Senator Taa. I
do hope you enjoy each other’s company.”
“Of course, Shayla. We’ll catch up with you later,” Thalassa acknowledged, then turned
back to Padmé. “Where were we? So difficult to keep up a conversation in this crowd!
Have you any idea where Bail hides the ladies’ room around here? I really need to
freshen up.”
Set somewhat at ease by the idleness of Lady Tarkin’s conversation, Padmé unwittingly
answered. “Oh, yes, it’s this way.” The two then strolled casually down the corridor.
After adjusting her veil, Padmé watched as Lady Tarkin stood before the mirror for a
moment, straightening her headdress, putting a few stray tendrils back into place. She
then reached into her handbag, withdrew a small perfume bottle, and refreshed herself,
spraying it generously about her gown and headdress. The pungent vapors of a
fragrance Padmé did not recognize burned her nose slightly, and she made a face. Lady
Tarkin--the Chancellor’s Hand--brushed at her rouge with her fingertips, then turned back
into the hall to locate her husband and their companions.
The small ‘fresher had been perfect, Thalassa thought as she strode confidently away,
perfect to trap and contain the vapor and the poisoned spores it contained. Chancellor
Palpatine would certainly be pleased, and, she mused, rewards for her beloved husband
would abound when they returned from their upcoming trip to Ghorman.
* * *
Once back on Coruscant, Bail Organa inquired after Senator Amidala, who had reported
ill for the last couple of days. “I’m glad you’ve come by, Bail,” Padmé acknowledged as
she invited her fellow Senator into her private office and closed the door. “I need to talk to
someone, and you’re one of the few people I feel I can trust.” She then touched a keypad
in the top of her desk to activate the security filters.
“A matter of confidence, I can see,” Bail observed.
“Yes, I’m afraid so.” Padmé cleared her throat, having endured a bad cough for the better
part of a standard week. “It seems this bout of whatever I’ve had for the last few days is
nothing natural. Someone’s trying to assassinate me again, Bail.”
Organa looked stunned, and his right hand instinctively clenched into a fist. “What?”
“My emdee droid ran a full blood spectrum after the usual treatment for cold and flu didn’t
work. It found necrotizing spores, specifically engineered to target my DNA. I apparently
ingested or inhaled them somewhere recently. Fortunately, the formula must not have
been quite right, as I now sit here talking to you.”
“Do you think it could have happened at the Gala?” Bail asked defensively.
“I’m not accusing you or anyone else of anything, Bail,” she assured him. “But if you
wouldn’t mind, I’d like to get a copy of your guest list.”
“Of course, of course. Right away.” Bail then pulled out his datapad, brought up the
requested file, and aimed his data port at the receiver panel on Padmé’s desk. “Have you
notified Senatorial Security?”
“Yes, as well as my own detail and the Chancellor’s Office.”
“I’m so sorry, Padmé. When will this nonsense ever end?”
“It may never end, Bail. We lead public lives; we take public risks.” She pulled at the curls
at the ends of her tendrils. “I do seem to be an assassin magnet of sorts, however.”
“Whatever I can do to help, Padmé, please just let me know.”
“That’s very kind of you. I will.”
* * *
At the apex of the building, in the Chancellor’s Office, Thalassa Tarkin hesitantly
approached Palpatine, having been set on her guard by his urgent and unexpected
summons, as well as the look of displeasure on his face.
“I can deal with this one, gentlemen,” he told the two bluerobes who flanked the inside of
his office door.
When they left, Lady Tarkin met the Chancellor’s gaze. “What’s wrong, Cos?”
“Senator Amidala lives,” he seethed.
“But I—“ she began.
“I am not interested in your excuses,” he interrupted. He then threw a datachip at her.
“You will find out why she lives. Senator Amidala has a personal emdee droid, kept in her
quarters below. You will gain access and slice the droid’s memory onto that datachip,
which you will then promptly deliver to me.”
Thalassa nodded as she examined the datachip. She looked up at the Chancellor, and,
with trepidation, asked a tentative question, bracing herself in case he responded with
violence. “How do I get in?”
“Ah,” Palpatine ventured, raising a finger. “You, my lady, will accompany me to a small
social occasion at Amidala’s apartments tomorrow evening. I have asked her to host a
select gathering of us Naboo, plus our chosen guests. You might say ‘it’s a Naboo-thing’.
I do hope you don’t feel too much out of place.”
Thalassa nodded. “And how would you like me to dispatch that insufferable protocol droid
of hers?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Palpatine elaborated. “You will become somewhat unwell, my
dear. Senator Amidala is most gracious with what is hers, to a fault, I’m afraid.”
Thalassa chuckled. “It’s a date, then. Pick me up at eight, will you?”
The Chancellor simply winked at her.
* * *
The veritable Who’s Who of Naboo had come to Coruscant for the occasion, including
Padmé’s sister, Sola, and their mother, Jobal. Captain Typho and his wife, Sha’Naudra,
mingled with the Naberrie women by the expansive windows overlooking Padmé’s private
landing pad. All heads turned as the door chimed and C-3PO moved dutifully to welcome
the Chancellor.
Padmé was slightly taken aback at the sight of the trophy on his arm. “Lady Tarkin, how
nice to see you again,” she greeted—very diplomatically.
It was Palpatine who spoke up. “Yes, it seems her husband is incommunicado
somewhere at the ends of the galaxy amidst this accursed war, and she’s a bit of a
worrier. I thought it would be nice to get her out for awhile.”
Padmé nodded, and Thalassa nodded back, demurely, of course.
Across the room, Lady Bibble nudged former Queen Jamillia with her elbow. “Look at
that!” she spat, indicating the Chancellor. “Every time I see him he’s with one of those
noxious Tarkin women.” She lowered her voice and leaned toward the young Queen’s
ear. “He can’t keep his hands off them! Rumor has it he’s slept with their Senator, and I
even saw him grope Lady Marganitha at the Seswenna Ball last year! She was either too
drunk to realize, or too flattered to let on. Either way, she’s a rather pathetic case, don’t
you think?”
Thalassa would have loved the jibe at her mother-in-law, but she already busied herself
working the opposite side of the room. Soon, though, on cue, she placed her drink and a
half-eaten appetizer on the end table and sank quietly onto the divan, elbow on arm and
forehead in hand. It didn’t take the quintessential diplomat long to notice. “Lady Tarkin,
can I get you anything?” Padmé asked.
Thalassa made a wave-off gesture. “Oh, no, but thank you. I’m just not feeling well at all. I
should go, but I’d hate to cut the Chancellor’s visit short. He has very much looked
forward to this evening.”
Padmé took the bait without a second thought. She most graciously escorted Lady Tarkin
to a guest room, invited her to lie down, and promptly sent her emdee droid in to have a
look at her ill guest.
Thalassa worked quickly, so the slice didn’t take long. Soon, she rejoined the party. She
slipped the datachip into Palpatine’s palm as they parted ways at the lift banks after the
evening’s conclusion.
* * *
Palpatine sneered menacingly, then let out an evil cackle as he read the analysis of the
datachip. “How very convenient! How utterly useful! I have you now, both of you!” he
snickered under his breath. Anakin and Padmé would both suffer greatly due to the
information Palpatine now possessed. Padmé survived Lady Tarkin’s attack due to
foreign DNA in her body, Anakin’s DNA, half of which he had contributed to their unborn
child. “And once the little vermin is born,” Palpatine continued, “the spores will take effect.
She will drop dead, and I will take utmost pleasure in snuffing out the little brat myself!”
Palpatine smiled warmly at the woman who sat with him, pleased that she was no longer
afraid to do so. Extremely versatile and at ease in almost any diplomatic situation, she
stood tall and solid, in her early thirties, a strong, sizable woman even by the standards of
her homeworld. Her facial features appeared sharp, well defined, and her dark eyes
augmented the lush ebony falls of her uncommonly long hair.
As usual, Palpatine found it difficult to take his eyes off of her finely-shaped form, clad
today in red and black leather, the top red, with a large marquis of black inset into each
long, puffed sleeve, and the tight black leather slacks sporting the corresponding red
leather marquis design along their sides. Her sleek black boots had been her footwear of
choice for as long as he had known her, even when he'd first met her when she was just
a teenage girl still on her father's estate. Yet she could do just as well in a ball gown and
jeweled slippers, and it would be in such that he would require her services once again.
Though his eyes stayed fixed upon her, his breathing quickened, and his bodily instincts
responded to her in their own ways, Palpatine dared not take her. Her husband had
proved himself indispensable as perhaps his brightest and most loyal protégé, his best
military tactician, and one of his most lethal covert assistants. Yet sometimes he required
a softer yet deadlier touch that neither the masculine nor the military could provide.
They sipped their stim tea casually as the Chancellor made his needs known. "Anakin has
become . . . distracted, and so this must be rectified if he is to be of any further use to us."
The woman opposite him nodded in understanding. “I’ve sensed it, too,” she
acknowledged.
"This distraction will be in attendance at the upcoming Gala Aldera, to which you and
your husband have also been invited, on Alderaan."
“Senator Amidala! That sniveling little idiot is still meddling in our affairs? I thought we’d
managed to gain Anakin’s better judgment on that matter.” She sat back in her chair,
sipping her tea, smiling menacingly. She set the glass aside. "What would you have me
do, Your Excellency?"
"I've obtained her DNA profile from Senate's central personnel archives, and have bade
my engineers on Byss concoct an agent that will work within that code to disassemble the
pathetic creature from the inside out!"
The young woman in red and black threw back her head and laughed openly, evilly.
"Excellent!" She leaned across the garden table between them, lowering her deep, rich
voice suggestively. "And how shall I administer such agent?"
Palpatine reached into his robe pocket and withdrew a beautifully bejeweled and brilliant
cut crystal perfume decanter, the small variety that fits into a lady's evening handbag.
"Such a beautiful thing!" his companion observed, ogling it as it glittered in the afternoon
Coruscant sun.
"According to your husband, it contains your favorite fragrance--infused with the
engineered spores that will eliminate this lascivious and noisome Padmé Amidala!"
"But Cos, if I spray my cologne on her, won't that be rather obvious?"
"No, no, my dear," Palpatine began to clarify. "You shall simply get her alone, perhaps in
the powder room, yet close to you, and spray it on yourself. It won't harm you, and the
agent is strong enough to accomplish our end if you administer it in this way."
She shook her head, smiling cunningly at him. "Of all things you devise!" she mused.
"Your reward," he said as he set the jeweled bottle on the table between them. She'd
always been weak for trinkets, he knew, but she knew that each such trinket she earned
also came with some sort of career-related benefit for her husband--her soul mate--the
dearest being to her in all the universe. But the Chancellor must never know how dear,
else they may suffer the same fate pending Anakin and Amidala.
* * *
The Gala Aldera proved to be everything the tabvids and mainstream media speculated it
would be. Fabulous, luxurious, and grand, the Great Hall of the Royal Palace of Alderaan
that evening bore a spectacle of the finest in decor, with chamber music and crimson
carpets to caress the ears and feet of the esteemed guests, and the very best in food and
drink to satiate, and impress. Indeed, Bail Organa had outdone himself this time.
Senator Padmé Amidala of Naboo stood near him, yet slightly in the background, in an
elegant but unobtrusive ivory gown with delicate lace embroidery, her hair intricately
interwoven into a lace headdress with a short veil that partially covered her face.
A striking couple entered the hall then, the tall, thin man in his full dress military uniform,
and the woman in a flowing gray satin ball gown with silver trim, a delicate metallic
evening bag, and an elaborate headdress. Her exceedingly long black hair required such
imposing finery. The two definitely looked as though they belonged together. Padmé
turned away as the announcer called out, "Governor and Lady Tarkin of Eriadu." And just
behind them, “Lord Treasurer and Senator Tarkin of Eriadu.”
Lady Thalassa Tarkin immediately began to scan the hall for her quarry. With that in her
sights, she turned to the woman behind her. “Shayla, is that Senator Amidala?”
Senator Shayla Paige-Tarkin turned to acknowledge the question. “Yes, unfortunately.”
“Introduce me, would you? I simply must find out who her stylist is!”
“Well, all right, but I wouldn’t be seen to cavort too long with such rabble were I you.”
Oblivious to her involvement in the plot, Senator Page-Tarkin led Lady Thalassa in
Amidala’s direction.
* * *
The very sight of Lady Tarkin made Amidala's blood run cold in her veins. She'd always
harbored an intense and suspicious dislike for the severe, dark-haired Phelarian woman
who had regularly made company with the Supreme Chancellor over the years. After all,
many people were wary of the woman who wielded the galaxy's primary megonite supply--
a powerful organic explosive on her native Phelarion. A large corporation, production
facility, and labor colony had been her birthright as the daughter of Lady Iryani Druscill
Motti and Baron Nostremi Octovano. Her marriage to the likes of Wilhuff Tarkin had been
an oddity indeed—no formal announcement, no public event. Most interested beings
considered the strange marriage nothing more than a business arrangement, giving the
Tarkin clan access to the political and financial assets of the Motti lineage and the Mining
Guild. Next to Lady Thalassa, Wilhuff seemed nothing more than a plaything among her
vast collection of trinkets and curiosities. And yet, there was something between those
two, something intangible, something they kept to themselves. Something sinister.
Padmé put on her Political Face as Senator Paige-Tarkin and “Madame Megonite,” as
Lady Tarkin was often dubbed, approached. Unlike Thalassa, Shayla proved to be
nothing more than a bureaucratic puppet, saying and doing exactly as her handlers back
on Eriadu directed her. She could be both melodramatic and demure in the same sitting,
and certainly preferred the trappings of her role—the banquets and parties and fancy
robes—to the actual business of representing the Seswenna Sector. That she
contentedly left in the capable hands of her husband, Nolan, and his cousins Wilhuff and
Gideon.
* * *
“Yes, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Tarkin,” Padmé addressed Thalassa in her
Political Voice. “Your contributions to the war effort are certainly not lost on any of us
here.”
“Whatever it takes to blow those vile Separatists clear out of the galaxy!” Thalassa
declared. “But enough of the war for tonight. Senator Organa has provided us with a most
welcome respite this evening, no?”
“Quite.” Padmé did not wish to make more conversation with this one than necessary.
“That gown is absolutely stunning, Senator! And the veil so delicate! Just who might you
be wearing this evening?”
“Oh, excuse me, my dears,” Shayla cut in, “but I really must go speak with Senator Taa. I
do hope you enjoy each other’s company.”
“Of course, Shayla. We’ll catch up with you later,” Thalassa acknowledged, then turned
back to Padmé. “Where were we? So difficult to keep up a conversation in this crowd!
Have you any idea where Bail hides the ladies’ room around here? I really need to
freshen up.”
Set somewhat at ease by the idleness of Lady Tarkin’s conversation, Padmé unwittingly
answered. “Oh, yes, it’s this way.” The two then strolled casually down the corridor.
After adjusting her veil, Padmé watched as Lady Tarkin stood before the mirror for a
moment, straightening her headdress, putting a few stray tendrils back into place. She
then reached into her handbag, withdrew a small perfume bottle, and refreshed herself,
spraying it generously about her gown and headdress. The pungent vapors of a
fragrance Padmé did not recognize burned her nose slightly, and she made a face. Lady
Tarkin--the Chancellor’s Hand--brushed at her rouge with her fingertips, then turned back
into the hall to locate her husband and their companions.
The small ‘fresher had been perfect, Thalassa thought as she strode confidently away,
perfect to trap and contain the vapor and the poisoned spores it contained. Chancellor
Palpatine would certainly be pleased, and, she mused, rewards for her beloved husband
would abound when they returned from their upcoming trip to Ghorman.
* * *
Once back on Coruscant, Bail Organa inquired after Senator Amidala, who had reported
ill for the last couple of days. “I’m glad you’ve come by, Bail,” Padmé acknowledged as
she invited her fellow Senator into her private office and closed the door. “I need to talk to
someone, and you’re one of the few people I feel I can trust.” She then touched a keypad
in the top of her desk to activate the security filters.
“A matter of confidence, I can see,” Bail observed.
“Yes, I’m afraid so.” Padmé cleared her throat, having endured a bad cough for the better
part of a standard week. “It seems this bout of whatever I’ve had for the last few days is
nothing natural. Someone’s trying to assassinate me again, Bail.”
Organa looked stunned, and his right hand instinctively clenched into a fist. “What?”
“My emdee droid ran a full blood spectrum after the usual treatment for cold and flu didn’t
work. It found necrotizing spores, specifically engineered to target my DNA. I apparently
ingested or inhaled them somewhere recently. Fortunately, the formula must not have
been quite right, as I now sit here talking to you.”
“Do you think it could have happened at the Gala?” Bail asked defensively.
“I’m not accusing you or anyone else of anything, Bail,” she assured him. “But if you
wouldn’t mind, I’d like to get a copy of your guest list.”
“Of course, of course. Right away.” Bail then pulled out his datapad, brought up the
requested file, and aimed his data port at the receiver panel on Padmé’s desk. “Have you
notified Senatorial Security?”
“Yes, as well as my own detail and the Chancellor’s Office.”
“I’m so sorry, Padmé. When will this nonsense ever end?”
“It may never end, Bail. We lead public lives; we take public risks.” She pulled at the curls
at the ends of her tendrils. “I do seem to be an assassin magnet of sorts, however.”
“Whatever I can do to help, Padmé, please just let me know.”
“That’s very kind of you. I will.”
* * *
At the apex of the building, in the Chancellor’s Office, Thalassa Tarkin hesitantly
approached Palpatine, having been set on her guard by his urgent and unexpected
summons, as well as the look of displeasure on his face.
“I can deal with this one, gentlemen,” he told the two bluerobes who flanked the inside of
his office door.
When they left, Lady Tarkin met the Chancellor’s gaze. “What’s wrong, Cos?”
“Senator Amidala lives,” he seethed.
“But I—“ she began.
“I am not interested in your excuses,” he interrupted. He then threw a datachip at her.
“You will find out why she lives. Senator Amidala has a personal emdee droid, kept in her
quarters below. You will gain access and slice the droid’s memory onto that datachip,
which you will then promptly deliver to me.”
Thalassa nodded as she examined the datachip. She looked up at the Chancellor, and,
with trepidation, asked a tentative question, bracing herself in case he responded with
violence. “How do I get in?”
“Ah,” Palpatine ventured, raising a finger. “You, my lady, will accompany me to a small
social occasion at Amidala’s apartments tomorrow evening. I have asked her to host a
select gathering of us Naboo, plus our chosen guests. You might say ‘it’s a Naboo-thing’.
I do hope you don’t feel too much out of place.”
Thalassa nodded. “And how would you like me to dispatch that insufferable protocol droid
of hers?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Palpatine elaborated. “You will become somewhat unwell, my
dear. Senator Amidala is most gracious with what is hers, to a fault, I’m afraid.”
Thalassa chuckled. “It’s a date, then. Pick me up at eight, will you?”
The Chancellor simply winked at her.
* * *
The veritable Who’s Who of Naboo had come to Coruscant for the occasion, including
Padmé’s sister, Sola, and their mother, Jobal. Captain Typho and his wife, Sha’Naudra,
mingled with the Naberrie women by the expansive windows overlooking Padmé’s private
landing pad. All heads turned as the door chimed and C-3PO moved dutifully to welcome
the Chancellor.
Padmé was slightly taken aback at the sight of the trophy on his arm. “Lady Tarkin, how
nice to see you again,” she greeted—very diplomatically.
It was Palpatine who spoke up. “Yes, it seems her husband is incommunicado
somewhere at the ends of the galaxy amidst this accursed war, and she’s a bit of a
worrier. I thought it would be nice to get her out for awhile.”
Padmé nodded, and Thalassa nodded back, demurely, of course.
Across the room, Lady Bibble nudged former Queen Jamillia with her elbow. “Look at
that!” she spat, indicating the Chancellor. “Every time I see him he’s with one of those
noxious Tarkin women.” She lowered her voice and leaned toward the young Queen’s
ear. “He can’t keep his hands off them! Rumor has it he’s slept with their Senator, and I
even saw him grope Lady Marganitha at the Seswenna Ball last year! She was either too
drunk to realize, or too flattered to let on. Either way, she’s a rather pathetic case, don’t
you think?”
Thalassa would have loved the jibe at her mother-in-law, but she already busied herself
working the opposite side of the room. Soon, though, on cue, she placed her drink and a
half-eaten appetizer on the end table and sank quietly onto the divan, elbow on arm and
forehead in hand. It didn’t take the quintessential diplomat long to notice. “Lady Tarkin,
can I get you anything?” Padmé asked.
Thalassa made a wave-off gesture. “Oh, no, but thank you. I’m just not feeling well at all. I
should go, but I’d hate to cut the Chancellor’s visit short. He has very much looked
forward to this evening.”
Padmé took the bait without a second thought. She most graciously escorted Lady Tarkin
to a guest room, invited her to lie down, and promptly sent her emdee droid in to have a
look at her ill guest.
Thalassa worked quickly, so the slice didn’t take long. Soon, she rejoined the party. She
slipped the datachip into Palpatine’s palm as they parted ways at the lift banks after the
evening’s conclusion.
* * *
Palpatine sneered menacingly, then let out an evil cackle as he read the analysis of the
datachip. “How very convenient! How utterly useful! I have you now, both of you!” he
snickered under his breath. Anakin and Padmé would both suffer greatly due to the
information Palpatine now possessed. Padmé survived Lady Tarkin’s attack due to
foreign DNA in her body, Anakin’s DNA, half of which he had contributed to their unborn
child. “And once the little vermin is born,” Palpatine continued, “the spores will take effect.
She will drop dead, and I will take utmost pleasure in snuffing out the little brat myself!”
