EPILOGUE: TEN YEARS LATER

The alert bleats a series of beeps as the transponder array picks up a new message from a familiar signal. F3-LX skitters nervously across the desk, arms waving.

"Mistress Berrie. Incoming communication from Dantooine."

"I know, Felix. Give me a few seconds." The hydro-spanner in my hand sparks unhelpfully as I touch it to the busted wire. Crouched beneath the desk, I grunt with effort as I line the tool up just so. Upon contact, the generator thrums back to life and I sigh in relief.

"Mistress, we will lose the signal in approximately 3.2 seconds."

I clamber out from under the desk and toss the hydro-spanner aside, taking my seat and holding down the flashing blue button on the console.

"Dantooine Base, this is Berrie."

"This is Captain Dua at Dantooine Base. Please prepare to receive a new transmission code. You are to encrypt all messages from this informant and relay them to Rebel agents. The informant's code name is Fulcrum."

I swipe to an empty file on the holographic display. "Ready to receive transmission code."

"Sending now," says Captain Dua.

A series of numbers trickle into the file in staggered rows that form a strange, angular shape on the display. I lean back as the last digits register, struck by the familiarity of the symbol. Surely I have seen it somewhere before.

"Code received. Is that all, Captain Dua?"

"Fulcrum should make first contact at 1500 hours. Be ready to encrypt their transmission."

"Copy that," I reply.

The signal ends as Captain Dua disconnects, and I am alone with F3-LX again.

"Do you recognise this symbol, Felix?" I ask.

He rolls closer to the holographic display, head tilted. "Negative, Mistress Berrie."

"Well, there is enough time to get to the market and back before 1500 hours."

I stand and survey my workspace: a holographic display, a keypad, two consoles full of flashing buttons, a microphone and an enormous speaker, more cables than you could poke a lightsaber at, an array of aerial receivers and a self-contained generator. All sourced second hand, some from Rebel contacts and some locally.

How Irdé would laugh to see me now. The once tech-inept Senator now running an underground communications hub for the Rebellion. It has been a steep learning curve, but it has been good for me to keep busy. It keeps me present.

By day, I field transmissions from various Rebel sources – be it Dantooine Base, a secretly dissenting Senator, or a pilot delivering aid – and ensure the information reaches the ears it needs to. I am one small part of the larger work, but it gives me purpose.

I have taken to growing Meiloorun fruit, as their trees seem to flourish in this tropical climate. Each week I take a dozen or so to sell or barter at the local market, and it is just enough to get by on. Far from the privileged lifestyle I was accustomed to for much of my life.

Once or twice off-world strangers have made passing comments about my resemblance to the late Senator Amidala. When that happens, I tell them I worked for her briefly as a handmaiden. But the Republic is barely remembered here, much less its Senators.

By night, I dream. Sometimes of my past: of Anakin, of my political career, of my family on Naboo. More often, I dream of my children.

A smiling boy with sandy hair runs through the dunes of Tatooine, pretending to fly a model starfighter. He pauses by a familiar homestead to watch the two suns set, a woman my age standing beside him, holding his hand protectively, as if he is the most precious thing she has ever seen. He gazes, rapt, at the stars.

A determined girl with dark braids piled high atop her head hides in a tree as royal Alderaanian guards search for her below. She sweet talks them all the way home, spouting questions the guards cannot answer as they pass through the gleaming halls of a palace. Once there, she is swept into the loving embrace of two familiar figures.

I cannot know if what I see is real. Perhaps I am inventing a childhood for Luke and Leia. But I like to believe we are connected, somehow, through the Force. Enough for me to catch a glimpse of the truth of their lives and the love that fills it. And that has to be enough.

At 1500 hours, I am back at my desk when the alert beeps again. I recognise the Fulcrum code and F3-LX fusses by the holographic display as I patch the transmission through.

"Fulcrum, this is Berrie Obrin. Do you read me?"

"Yes, Berrie. This is Fulcrum. I was given this code by Captain Dua. I am told you can connect me to various Rebel agents, as needed, and provide encryption?"

For a moment I am too stunned to answer. Can it possibly be? The voice is weathered by the past ten years, but it is startlingly familiar. That plus the shape of the transmission code…

"Ah, yes, that is correct. I can encrypt your messages to disguise your voice and identity from the Rebel agents you contact."

"Excellent," Fulcrum responds.

"I'm sorry, this is breaking protocol… But your voice is so familiar. Am I speaking to Ahsoka Tano?"

A pause. "Only if there is some crazy possibility that I am speaking to Padmé Amidala."

"Ahsoka, you're alive!"

She laughs. "And so are you!"

"Obviously I will encrypt your transmissions so no one else can recognise you. And it is vitally important that my identity remain secret too. But it is so good to hear your voice."

"Padmé, I went to your funeral. You have a lot of explaining to do."

I chuckle despite myself. "That, my friend, is a long story."