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Shmi has been a Jedi for seven years when war breaks out on Mon Calamari.
She and Yoda are on Ossus, learning about the history of the Jedi and calmly discussing whether she’d like to be knighted soon; Yoda’s been pushing for it for a year and a half, but Shmi keeps putting it off, for reasons even she’s not sure about.
Mon Calamari is just rimward of Ossus, so Shmi and Yoda are two of the first to be called in, alongside Luminara Unduli and her new padawan, Barriss.
Barriss is shy, the only child among adults as their shuttles meet halfway to Mon Calamari; she’s barely twelve, freshly chosen, and not who Shmi would have wanted heading into a warzone.
“It’s only because we were on Mirial for Barriss’s initiation,” Luminara says, which is probably meant to be more reassuring than it is. “We’re only the first responders, Shmi; we’ll assess the situation and do what we can, but there will be backup arriving soon.”
“Forgive me if I’m not the most comfortable taking a child into a full-scale war,” Shmi says quietly.
“I have no intention of letting Barriss near any actual fighting,” Luminara says sharply, which is much more reassuring. “She’s expressed some interest in healing, though, so if there’s a safe area she may be able to help; otherwise, she’ll be staying in the shuttle.”
“So that I can pilot it to where you are if you need rescuing,” Barriss pipes up. She’s tiny and delicate, the tattoos across the bridge of her nose still slightly shiny with healing skin.
“Of course,” Shmi says with a straight face.
“Of course,” Luminara agrees.
Barriss sighs.
“They tell you it’s important to go out and defend people,” Shmi tells Barriss quietly. “But you also need to remember to defend yourself, whether it’s from enemies or from trauma.”
Barriss nods, looking down. “Master Luminara said something similar,” she admits. “I just want to help.”
“You’ll help in the future,” Shmi tells her. “If you still want to. The best way to help now is keeping yourself safe, letting yourself have time to grow.”
“I understand, Master Skywalker,” Barriss says.
Shmi very carefully does not frown. “I’m still a padawan, Barriss,” she says, her face and voice calm. “Just a rather overaged one.”
“Oh!” Barriss squeaks. “Oh, I’m sorry–”
“It’s all right,” Shmi reassures her, and reassures herself. “It happens.”
It happens a surprising amount, even with Jedi who know that she’s a padawan. First it was Darth Zannah; now even Obi-Wan forgets sometimes. Yoda has been using it as a reason to push for her knighting, but Shmi insists that she still has more to learn. Now is not the time, she's told him, time and time again.
But that topic will have to be put on hold until they resolve the differences between the Quarren and the Mon Calamari.
“Difficult, the situation is,” Yoda says, entering the shuttle’s main room. “At odds, the Mon Calamari have been with the Quarren; yet unexpected, this sudden war is. Unexpected, hmm, and unexpectedly violent.”
“Do we suspect outside interference, Master Yoda?” Luminara asks.
Yoda exchanges a glance with Shmi. They certainly suspect outside interference.
“A distinct possibility, it is,” Yoda says. “On the lookout, be. Delicate, we must be, and care we must take with this situation. A fragile peace is shattered; hope for the best, we must, and still enough, that may not be.”
“Why do the Mon Calamari share a planet with the Quarren if they hate each other so much?” Barriss asks.
“Unknown, it is,” Master Yoda says, “Whether evolved together, they did, or whether came later to the planet, one or both species did. Lost, it is, to the mists of time. Cohabited for millennia, they have.”
“Thank you, Master Yoda,” Barriss says, ever polite.
“Dropping out of hyperspace, we will be soon,” Yoda says. “Be ready.”
Mon Calamari is a waterworld. All Shmi can think of when she sees it is Bant’s causal mention, years ago, of fish large enough to eat a humanoid. Water is a wonderful thing, yes, and after living most of her life on a desert planet she’s still just barely gotten used to having an excess. But entire worlds filled with water, water enough for everyone to drink, water enough for everyone to drown… it sends chills down her spine.
“It’s okay,” Barriss says, and takes her hand. Mirialans run colder than humans, and the chill breaks Shmi out of her contemplation. “I don’t know how to swim. I’m scared, too.”
Shmi blinks, then smiles. “It’s more the idea of how deep it is,” she admits freely. “I’ve never been in water where I can’t see the bottom.”
“On Mirial, there are glaciers that have crevasses in them that are miles deep,” Barriss says. “And there are drop-offs – well, places were there were glaciers, but it melted, and the water goes down for just as long. You can’t swim in those, because they’re too cold, but they’re so pretty, all different shades of blue and white.”
“That does sound beautiful,” Shmi says.
Barriss chatters the rest of the way to the planet’s surface, the warmth in her tone contrasting with the chilly landscape painted with her words.
The part of Mon Calamari they’re on has warm oceans, at least; all they need are rebreathers and propulsion packs. Shmi braids her hair as tightly as she's ever braided it, then lets the braid hang down to the middle of her back. It will be a pain, having it hanging there the way her padawan braid hangs at the side of her face, but she's gone swimming enough times to know that if she tries to pin it up in her customary bun, she'll never get it all untangled afterwards.
Shmi and Yoda both politely turn away as Luminara removes her customary mirialan robes and head-cloths, exchanging them for the clothes and wraps she'll be wearing underwater. Shmi hasn't had a chance yet to ask about the traditional mirialan garments, whether they're religious or cultural or just comfortable, and she's certainly not going to ask now, when she can feel Luminara's force-presence tinged with mild frustration and discomfort.
To be fair, that's something that Shmi can identify with greatly. She's dressed in what she's been told is a standard human swimming garment for bodies of water larger and cooler than a heated indoor pool, a "wet suit" that clings uncomfortably to her skin and smells, faintly, in the way that borrowed clothes sometimes do. Yoda is in a similar outfit, but due to his species's rarity, his wet suit won't fit anyone apart from Yaddle, and so at least doesn't reek of dozens or hundreds of other people.
"How are you going to be able to talk, with rebreathers in?" Barriss asks, her eyes wide.
"Sign language, padawan," Luminara says. "Theoretically, everyone who we'll be negotiating with knows Galactic Standard Sign Language. If we meet somebody who doesn't, Master Yoda knows both the Quarren and Mon Cal variants, and Padawan Shmi knows several common trade variants as well."
And, if worst comes to worst, Luminara is quietly famed in the Jedi Order for being able to make herself be heard through the Force even by non-Jedi – although the strain of it, Shmi has heard, can give her intense migraines.
"You should signal me with your comms if you are in trouble," Barriss says firmly. "And do not avoid it because I am too young! I have already promised to stay on the ship. If you need me, I will take the ship to you. Surely that will be safer than me sitting out here on my own, unknowing of potential danger."
Luminara sighs. " Yes , padawan."
Shmi hides her smile, nodding seriously at Barriss.
"Time, it is," Yoda says, and rests his gimer stick against his seat. Calmly, without a hint of hesitation, he walks forward and out of the ship's door, falling into the waves.
Shmi eyes the ocean beneath, wary of the shifting water. She can't see what's below them, between the teal reflection of the sky, and the sunlight bouncing off the waves, and – was that a fish?
All right. She's faced worse, and Luminara is waiting for her. Shmi has time and again placed her trust in the Force; she slides the rebreather into her mouth, closes her eyes, and jumps.
The water hits her with a shock of cold; her eyes pop open and she takes a sharp breath through the rebreather. Her propulsion pack engages, keeping her beneath the surface as she'd programmed it to, and she kicks a few times, so she's not blocking Luminara.
Yoda glances at her, and Shmi glares back at him.
"You said the water here was warm ," she says – signs, rather, her hands feeling slow and clumsy underwater, not used to the added resistance.
"Relatively warm, it is," Yoda says smugly, the sign language the same even though he has far fewer fingers than she does. The Galactic Standard Sign Language – GSSL – was made by many species, after all, meant to be intelligible even if the being doing the signing doesn't even have hands.
Shmi makes a rude gesture, one that is not part of any sign language. "And you're using improper syntax just to annoy people, now, aren't you?"
Yoda doesn't reply, but Shmi can feel the smug humor in the Force radiating out from her teacher.
There's a current of water that brushes against her, almost like a breeze, and Shmi turns her head to see Luminara swimming up to join them.
"He's been doing it for centuries," Luminara says, her green hands gesturing fluently despite the water's extra density. "There's no stopping a bad habit entrenched for that long. We should get going; the representatives will be waiting for us."
Shmi had read the initial report as the flew through hyperspace. Although to her it sounded like a real war, with fighting in the cities and bombs going off in public places, Luminara had told her and Barriss that on the grand scale of things it was barely more than a skirmish. One that could certainly escalate into something far worse, but with the current deaths numbering less than fifty it's more of an extended riot than a battle between armies.
Of course, battles between armies do mean that the combatants are soldiers, trained and controlled; riots… are anything but controlled. Luminara doesn't have to tell Shmi that.
The name of the planet's capital city isn't pronounceable for non-aquatic species, but in translation its name is Coral City. They're met at the city's outskirts by four beings – two Mon Calamari and two Quarren, who eye each other distrustingly, tense as the three Jedi swim forward.
"Be welcome in Coral City," one of the Mon Calamari says, his voice echoing oddly in the water. It's still intelligible, but Shmi will have to listen carefully. " We –" and he uses one of the rarer forms of we , a slightly-archaic form of the word that means we two, specifically . "We have been sent to ensure your safe arrival at the city hall."
One of the Quarren scoffs, her mouth-tendrils flaring. "Of course. Sent by the ones causing all this trouble–" her companion elbows her, and she gestures to the side, an apologetic sign. "We will accompany you, to ensure safety from all sides."
The two Mon Calamari do not deign to acknowledge this.
Shmi exchanges a glance with Yoda and Luminara, and wishes she could sigh through the rebreather.
The journey through the city is quiet, the tension between their guards acute. Shmi can't tell if the quiet is because everybody is hiding, or because water carries sound differently than air does, muting the world around them. The propulsion packs that the Jedi wore are smooth and silent in the water, and the rebreathers leave streams of tiny bubbles in their wake, drifting up towards the surface.
Shmi lets her senses drift, trying to find a new equilibrium in this strange environment. She can sense the presence of beings, bright minds all around her, in the buildings, in the streets above and the streets below. Flaring in fear, or anger, or hope, or sorrow – there a sharp spike of urgency; there one of relief.
"It seems the riot has calmed," Luminara signs, her hands leaving small pockets of turbulence in their wake. "Save for small clusters of chaos."
"For now," Shmi says, her hands fighting against the current of their journey. "Too big a spark, and it will flare up again, all the worse for having died down before."
Luminara nods, and both she and Shmi glance over at Yoda.
Yoda isn't looking at them – instead, he is staring out at the city. The buildings, or the drifting plants, or the faint figures moving in the distance… Shmi isn't sure what, specifically, is drawing his attention, but she trusts Yoda to know what is important.
They're at the gates to the city hall when the fear and urgency spikes in a sharp and urgent pulse, and all three Jedi turn around (as best they could, underwater) to see a Nautolan rushing towards them, from below and to their left.
A Nautolan, and not tied to either side, Shmi realizes. The Nautolan may not have been native here, but she wore a Coral City Police uniform, and both their Quarren guards and their Mon Calamari guards lower their weapons at the sight of her.
"A bomb," she says – signs, because Nautolans are aquatic, but their vocal cords were adapted for land. "In the Pearl Heart Theatre – we don't know how to disarm it–"
Yoda darts forward, his propulsion pack sending currents over Shmi and Luminara. "Go, I will," he says, his signs directed at Luminara and Shmi. "Do well, you will, in these negotiations. Force be with you." Then he turns to the Nautolan and nods; she looks him up and down, judging him, then nods back, and uses her powerful legs and head-tentacles to propel herself back in the direction she'd come from, with Yoda following close behind.
Shmi very carefully does not clench her fists. She wants to go with Yoda, use her mechanical expertise to disarm the bomb, but she knows very well that she had no real experience in underwater combat. Even if it doesn't come to blows, even if it is just a bomb, there was every likelihood that she wouldn't be able to swim fast enough to dodge rubble or debris.
And Yoda knew that, and had known that Shmi knew that there wasn't enough time to argue; and Shmi had realized that and hadn't argued, and now she turns back and follows Luminara into the city hall.
"The Pearl Heart," one of their Mon Calamari guides murmured to the other. "I hope they can save it – My brother met his spouse there. It's a beautiful place."
One of the Quarren snorts. "Well, maybe if your people hadn't–"
The Mon Calamari turns his head to glare both eyes at the Quarren. "You dare blame this on–"
Thankfully, the final set of doors swings open, interrupting them both, and their guides scramble to look professional as Shmi and Luminara swim into the council chamber.
The guides needn't have bothered. The council chamber is in chaos, with Mon Calamari and Quarren shouting and rumbling, swimming around and around.
Shmi can't understand a single word of it, and looks helplessly over at Luminara.
Luminara looks shocked, her eyes darting from being to being around the room. "They're all behaving like children ," she signs, but nobody except Shmi is looking at her. They're all too focused on each other.
All right, Shmi thinks. Let's get their attention, then – and she activates her lightsaber.
With the addition of a plasma flux moderator, it functions perfectly fine underwater, waving and dancing green in the currents, reflecting light all around the room. It hums, its pitch a little higher than usual, and it hisses as the plasma eats up molecules of water, but the flux modulator does its trick and the lightsaber doesn't bubble off endless clouds of steam trying to cut through the ocean itself.
Slowly, the sound and the light reaching around the room, the Mon Calamari and the Quarren turn to face Shmi and Luminara.
Thankfully, by that point Luminara has gotten her bearings. She swims forward, signing elegantly as she did. "Greetings. I am Knight Luminara Unduli, and this is Shmi Skywalker. We–"
"I thought the Jedi were going to send a Jedi Master , not just a knight," one of the Mon Calamari says, crossing her arms.
Luminara's eyes narrow. "Master Yoda is dealing with a situation that has arisen in the city–"
"What?" Another Mon Calamari focuses both of their eyes on Luminara. "What situation?"
"A bomb threat, at the Pearl Heart Theatre," one of their Mon Calamari guides says. "He's helping the police with it."
"He is," Luminara signs sharply, sending out a wave through the Force – a drum-beat through the water filling the room, drawing all eyes back to her. "We are the Jedi come to assist in negotiations. Describe to us the state of affairs."
"The state of affairs is intolerable ," a Quarren snaps immediately. "The political imbalance–"
"Political imbalance? You mean lack of political superiority –"
"As if politics are the end of it, you scheming–"
"Unnecessary–"
And then it is chaos again. Shmi closes her eyes. What would work here? These people seem to be determined to fight, and without Yoda's authority and reputation to back them up… she reaches out to the Force, letting herself be still and calm despite the chaos around her, receptive to whatever ideas it can give.
Open your eyes, something tells her, and so she does.
Just in time to see a Mon Calamari councilor kick a Quarren, sending them tumbling into Luminara, slamming her against a pillar, dislodging her rebreather.
The rebreather spirals away, out of immediate reach, and Luminara's eyes are already growing wide and panicked – she had breathed out when she'd impacted the pillar, and can't let herself breathe back in, but she's quickly running out of oxygen–
Oxygen.
Breathe.
Water is made of hydrogen and oxygen. Shmi can't pull apart atoms themselves, not with her bare hands, not with the Force; but what a rebreather does is a tricky little bit of atomic manipulation, turning oxygen into nitrogen, then collecting the extra protons into helium to balance out the gas mix. After all, breathing in pure oxygen isn't healthy, and nitrogen and helium are both inert, the ideal buffer gases. That nuclear re-mixing is the part of the process that takes the most time; in comparison, separating water into oxygen and hydrogen in the first place is simple.
One rebreather will not suffice for two people, not with the speed and dexterity needed to transfer from person to person in this chaos, and Luminara has already started to breathe in water.
Water is nothing but many tiny shifting particles, and Shmi is a master of fluid manipulation. All right. She extinguishes her lightsaber.
With a flick of her hand, the Force moving as she directs it, she dives deep into her rebreather's mechanisms, disabling the more complicated atomic manipulation. All the rebreather does now was that vital step of pulling oxygen and hydrogen apart. She removes the rebreather from her mouth, trusting in the Force and in her own lungs.
Shmi pulls , and as she pulls she pushes, as well, through the rebreather, up on the water above her, so much heavier than a gaseous atmosphere; and slowly, quickly, a bubble of air swells around the rebreather, volatile oxygen and hydrogen. If a spark hits it, it will explode, and even if it doesn't, the gas mix will leave them needing medical assistance if they breathe it in for too long; but in the short term it's breathable, and that's what matters.
Luminara collapses on the floor as she enters the bubble, the water no longer supporting her limbs, and falls on her hands and knees, hacking and coughing up the water she'd breathed in.
Shmi kneels to support her, dripping wet, feeling the weight of her hair on her back. The force of what she'd done – the Force of what she's doing , holding back the sea above them, preserving this little bubble of safety – has somehow managed to undo the tie at the bottom of her braid, leaving her hair hanging loose like a sopping wet curtain.
There's a quiet clink , barely audible over Luminara's coughs. Three small beads fall to the floor – one crimson, one blue, and one pale yellow.
"Ah," Shmi says softly, to herself, and looks up to face the Quarren and the Mon Calamari. They have all fallen still, turning to face the pocket of air, watching Shmi and Luminara through the distortion of the bubble's surface. This display of force, of Force, has certainly gotten their attention.
One Quarren and one Mon Calamari swim forward, entering the bubble, stepping in to the dry land beneath the sea.
"Master Skywalker," the Quarren says, inclining their head.
Shmi sets Luminara down carefully, and stands. This is what she was resisting, this is what she's been avoiding, the day that somebody not even of the Jedi Order, someone who didn't know better, would come up to her and call her a master . She knows it is the word that the Jedi use, she knows that they don't mean it the same way the Hutts do, when they keep slaves. But still, every time somebody has used it to refer to her, she has flinched, just a tiny bit.
Not now.
Now she has made air from water. Now she holds the ocean aloft, secure in the knowledge that she does not need to fear it. Now she has thought it herself, that she has mastered the skills the Jedi have taught her. She has no master but herself.
The Mon Calamari bows. "Master Skywalker."
"Yes," she says.