CHAPTER 7
The palace no longer shook with blaster fire.
That absence was almost unsettling.
Light spilled through fractured transparisteel high above the throne room, catching on drifting dust and the slow movement of repair crews along the upper balconies. Naboo guards stood at their posts with the rigid posture of people who had not yet allowed themselves to believe the fighting was over. Their armor was scorched. Their faces were drawn tight with exhaustion that had not yet found rest.
Kaito stood at the foot of the dais, hands folded loosely at his sides.
Queen Amidala sat upon the reclaimed throne, her ceremonial headdress set aside, her expression bare in a way it had not been during the occupation. She looked smaller without the trappings of rule, and somehow more formidable for it. The lines of strain around her eyes spoke of days without sleep and decisions that had not allowed for hesitation.
To her right stood Obi-Wan Kenobi.
He was still. Too still.
His posture was perfect, his hands folded behind his back in the traditional stance of the Order, but there was a tightness to him that had not been there before. His gaze rested somewhere just past the room, unfocused, as if part of him had not yet caught up with his body.
"You have what you came for," the Queen said.
Kaito inclined his head. "Yes, Your Majesty."
"The Trade Federation's internal records were not as thorough as they believed," she continued. "But they were thorough enough. The transports carrying Naboo citizens had already departed when we retook the palace. Their destination was listed as Ord Mantell."
Kaito's jaw tightened. "They will not wait."
"No," the Queen agreed. "Slavers rarely do."
Obi-Wan drew a breath, slow and deliberate. "The Jedi Order is bound by the authority of the Senate in matters of extrajurisdictional enforcement. Ord Mantell is politically complicated."
"Ambiguity," Kaito said quietly, "kills children just as efficiently as intent."
Obi-Wan met his gaze. There was no rebuke there. Only something raw and unfinished.
"I know," he said.
The silence that followed was heavy, but not hostile. It was the silence of people who understood one another too well to pretend otherwise.
Queen Amidala rose from the throne and descended the steps, her boots echoing softly against polished stone still scarred by battle. She stopped several paces from Kaito.
"My world is rebuilding," she said. "My people are wounded. Our defenses are compromised. Every trained pilot, every functional vessel, every credit we possess has already been allocated to survival."
She studied his face carefully.
"But survival is not the same as justice."
Kaito said nothing.
"You will have a ship," she continued. "A medical relief transport. Cleared for humanitarian operations. Its registry will not bear Naboo's seal, nor will it carry any insignia that could be construed as political involvement."
Obi-Wan turned his head slightly. "Padmé."
She did not look at him. "The Senate cannot object to mercy."
Her gaze returned to Kaito.
"You will have supplies. Medical equipment. Rations. Credits enough to purchase information or passage if required. You will not have soldiers."
"I am not asking for them," Kaito said.
"Good," she replied. "Because I cannot spare them."
She hesitated, then added, "You are not a citizen of Naboo. You owe us nothing."
"They took children from my care," Kaito said. "That is sufficient."
Obi-Wan exhaled slowly, the sound carrying more weight than any argument. "Once you leave this world, we cannot protect you."
"I have not been protected for some time," Kaito replied.
The Queen inclined her head once. "Then go. Bring them home if you can."
---
The hangars were alive with noise.
Hydraulic lifts groaned as damaged craft were hauled into place. Repair crews shouted over one another, their voices echoing off durasteel walls. Naboo pilots moved with practiced urgency, their attention fixed firmly on restoration and defense. This was not a place for long conversations or uncertain commitments.
Kaito approached anyway.
He spoke to pilots whose hands still shook from combat. To transport crews who had lost friends during evacuation runs. To engineers whose lives had become a blur of broken hulls and emergency seals.
They listened.
And declined.
Not unkindly.
"Reconstruction comes first."
"We cannot afford to lose more people."
"I have family unaccounted for."
Each refusal was measured. Reasonable. Impossible to argue against.
After hours of asking, Kaito stopped.
He stood near the edge of the hangar, watching a battered starfighter being guided into a repair cradle, and accepted what had been clear from the beginning.
Naboo survived by holding together. He was asking people to pull away.
"Kaito."
He turned.
The woman who stood before him wore simple clothes, patched and mended in places that spoke of necessity rather than neglect. Her posture was guarded, but her eyes were steady.
"You do not remember me," she said.
He studied her for a moment. Then recognition surfaced. "East valley convoy."
Her jaw tightened. "My son was on the second transport. You cut the locks."
Another figure stepped forward. Then another.
A man with a burn scar along his cheek. An older mechanic with grease permanently worked into the lines of his hands.
"We heard what you are trying to do," the man said. "Dockworkers talk. Crews listen."
"You are leaving for Ord Mantell," the woman added.
Kaito did not deny it.
"You freed us," the mechanic said. "No speeches. No promises. You just opened the doors and told us to run."
The woman drew a breath. "We can crew a transport. Not a warship. But we know how to keep people alive."
"You owe me nothing," Kaito said.
"That is not why we are here," she replied.
More people had gathered now. Not many. Just enough.
"My name is Seris Vale," the woman said. "I can fly. Not like the pilots you asked. But I can keep us steady."
The man with the scar shifted his weight, eyes hard. "Tovan Relk. I can read a manifest and I can spot a lie. I can also shoot."
The mechanic nodded once. "Jeren Holt. I keep things running. If it can be repaired, I can repair it. If it cannot, I can tell you before it kills us."
Kaito bowed deeply, formally, the way he had been taught centuries ago. "Then I will do everything in my power to bring you back alive."
"That is all we ask," Jeren said.
---
The transport lifted from Naboo without ceremony.
It was a medical relief vessel, its hull marked with faded humanitarian insignia. Slow. Forgettable. Exactly what it needed to be.
As the stars stretched into blue and vanished, Kaito braced one hand against the bulkhead and felt hyperspace wash through his body. It did not make him ill, but it left him slightly unsteady, as if his sense of place had been briefly unmoored. He waited until the sensation passed, then moved aft.
His quarters were small and functional. A narrow bunk. A locker. A recessed light panel set low.
He sat and placed his asauchi across his knees.
The hum of the hyperdrive pressed against him, mechanical and constant. It did not sing the way Naboo's living lattice had. It endured.
He closed his eyes and let his reiryoku settle.
The whisper was there. As it always was now. Not louder. Not clearer. Present.
It did not feel attached to the ship. It did not swell with motion or distance. It existed alongside him, patient as ever. Observant.
He rested two fingers against the flat of the blade.
"I am learning," he thought. Not to the sword specifically, not to the whisper alone. Simply as a statement of fact. "Slowly."
No answer came.
But when he drew a breath, it felt easier than the day before.
That, he decided, was enough.
He opened his eyes, sheathed the blade, and rose.
---
The cockpit was alive with quiet motion.
Seris sat at the controls, shoulders squared. Tovan monitored the displays beside her, jaw tight, eyes flicking constantly between readouts. Jeren worked behind them with an access panel open, tools laid out with meticulous care.
"We are stable," Seris said without turning. "Seventeen hours to Ord Mantell. Hyperlane traffic is light."
"Thank you," Kaito replied.
He stopped several steps short of the consoles.
"I would like to understand," he said. "If you are willing."
Tovan glanced back. "Understand what?"
"The ship," Kaito said. "How it flies. How it breaks. What fails first."
Jeren let out a short breath that might have been a laugh. "You are not planning to take the controls."
"No," Kaito said immediately. "I would be a danger."
That earned him a faint smile from Seris, brief and tired.
"You can watch," she said, gesturing to an auxiliary display. "Ask questions. Do not touch unless told."
They explained slowly.
What the controls did. How thrust and attitude were balanced. How power flowed from the reactor through distribution nodes that failed more often than manufacturers admitted. Which warning lights mattered and which were lies designed to keep crews calm.
Kaito listened.
He asked precise questions, not about speed or maneuvering, but about redundancy. About failure states. About what happened when systems were damaged but not destroyed.
"How long," he asked, "can life support function if the primary routing is compromised?"
Jeren answered without hesitation. "Hours. Sometimes minutes, if seals are bad and you do not notice."
Kaito nodded, committing it to memory.
He moved with Jeren through the ship after that. Not hovering. Not interfering. Watching as panels were opened, components identified, tools catalogued.
"This is a medical stabilizer," Jeren said, tapping a cylinder mounted near the aft section. "It keeps patients alive, not comfortable."
Kaito studied it. "Can it be repurposed."
Jeren's eyes narrowed as he considered. "With enough power and luck, yes. What are you thinking."
"Containment," Kaito said. "If we need to hold someone. Or keep someone breathing until we can leave."
Jeren grunted softly. "That can be arranged. Nothing is clean about it, but it can be arranged."
Kaito inclined his head. "Please show me."
They did.
By the time Kaito returned to his quarters, the ship felt less like a metal coffin and more like a body. Vulnerable. Finite. Repairable.
Seventeen hours remained.
He sat once more on the bunk, hands resting on his knees, and let his breathing slow.
The whisper lingered at the edge of his awareness.
Watching him learn.
---
The ship's lights dimmed again, simulating night. The hum of the hyperdrive did not change, but it seemed farther away, muffled by bulkheads and distance.
Kaito paused outside the galley before entering.
Inside, Seris sat at the narrow table, both hands wrapped around a cup she had not lifted in several minutes. Her shoulders were slightly hunched, as if she were holding herself together by posture alone. Tovan leaned against the far bulkhead, arms crossed tight over his chest, jaw clenched hard enough that the muscles jumped beneath the burn scar along his cheek. Jeren occupied the remaining seat, elbows on the table, methodically breaking a ration bar into smaller pieces he did not eat.
They looked up as Kaito entered.
No one spoke.
He took the open seat and sat with care, resting his forearms on the table. The asauchi remained at his side, unobtrusive, almost forgotten.
For a long moment, the only sound was the ship.
Seris was the first to move. She lifted the cup, hesitated, then set it down again without drinking.
"My son would have liked this ship," she said. Her voice was steady, but her jaw tightened at the end of the sentence. "He used to pretend crates were control panels. He would tell me where we were going. Places he made up."
Her eyes glistened. She blinked once, deliberately, and stared into the cup until the moisture receded.
"He is alive," she added, quieter now. "Somewhere. That matters."
Kaito nodded once. He did not rush to reassure her. "It does."
Tovan's breath left him in a sharp exhale. His shoulders sagged a fraction, then squared again, as if he had caught himself mid-collapse.
"I lost my sister on the second transport," he said. The words came out flat, practiced. "Not taken. Shot when she ran."
His jaw worked. He looked down at the deck, teeth clenched, a tremor running through one hand before he forced it still.
"I keep thinking if I had grabbed her hand sooner, if I had pulled harder, maybe."
Jeren did not look up. His voice was low, rough. "Maybe you would both be dead."
Tovan's eyes squeezed shut. His shoulders shook once. When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse.
"That is the part I cannot make myself believe."
Kaito watched him closely. Not judging. Not retreating.
In Soul Society, grief often arrived distant and complete. Here, it lingered in muscle tension and shallow breathing. It bent spines. It hollowed eyes.
"You are still here," Kaito said at last. "That is not an accident."
Tovan looked at him, eyes rimmed red. Anger flickered there, sharp and raw, but it did not turn outward. "It does not feel like a victory."
"It is not," Kaito replied. "It is a condition."
Seris let out a slow breath she had clearly been holding. Her shoulders dropped a little. She looked at Kaito, studying him with new focus.
"Is that how you see healing," she asked. "Just conditions."
Kaito considered the question. His hand curled briefly against his thigh, fingers tightening as the familiar ache in his arm pulsed.
"Healing is not returning to what was," he said. "It is learning how to carry what happened without letting it decide what comes next."
Jeren nodded once, sharp and decisive. "That sounds right."
Tovan rubbed at his face with the heel of his hand, then straightened. The anger was still there, but it had settled into something harder, more controlled.
"And that is why we are here," he said. "Not because we think this will fix anything. Because it does not end with us doing nothing."
Seris met his gaze, then looked back at Kaito. There was determination there now, brittle but real.
"You do not talk much about yourself," she said. "That usually means there is a lot being carried."
Kaito did not answer immediately.
"I am not good at going back," he said finally. "I am better at moving forward with what is broken."
No one argued.
Jeren slid the remaining pieces of the ration bar into the center of the table and finally ate one. "Then we are aligned."
They sat together after that, not speaking, not avoiding one another either. The ship carried them onward, the countdown to Ord Mantell ticking away in quiet increments.
Kaito felt the low burn in his arm. He did not push it aside. He let it exist, heavy and present.
For the first time since leaving Naboo, it did not feel like corrosion.
It felt like weight.
And weight, he was learning, could be shared.
---
Hours later, Kaito stood alone in the corridor outside the cockpit, listening to the steady rhythm of the ship. The hum of the hyperdrive was constant, almost hypnotic. Seventeen hours was a number. A measure. It did not slow for grief or determination.
He touched the hilt of his asauchi through the fabric of his tunic.
The whisper hovered at the edge of his awareness.
Patient.
He did not know if it was his blade beginning to wake, or the Force turning its attention toward him as he stepped deeper into the galaxy's shadow markets.
Maybe it did not matter yet.
What mattered was the mission.
What mattered was the children.
Ord Mantell waited.
And this time, he would not arrive as a lone ghost with blood on his hands and no one to answer to.
He would arrive with people who had chosen to follow him.
Not because he promised victory.
Because he promised that doing nothing was unacceptable.
He returned to his quarters, sat on the bunk, and closed his eyes.
He breathed.
In through the nose.
Out through the mouth.
Seventeen hours.
He would use them well.