The Emergency Ration Protocol

The Temple’s secondary hangar bay was supposed to be empty this time of night. That was the point. Ahsoka Tano had scouted it three rotations ago, noting the perfect shadow behind a decommissioned LAAT gunship where three small bodies could huddle unseen. She’d sent the coordinates via encrypted flimsiplast—a literal scrap of paper, because Barriss refused to use the HoloNet for “frivolous conspiracy,” and Caleb’s datapad had a two-inch crack across the screen from where he’d dropped it trying to catch a falling sandwich. Now they sat cross-legged on the cold durasteel floor, a single glowrod casting their faces in pale blue. Barriss had her robes tucked neatly beneath her knees. Caleb was already unwrapping a ration bar. “That’s your third one today,” Barriss observed, her voice mild. Caleb paused, the bar halfway to his mouth. “It’s my emergency stash. This is an emergency.” “We haven’t even started the meeting.” “Precisely. Emergency.” He took a defiant bite. Ahsoka grinned, pulling a folded flimsiplast from her belt. On it, she’d drawn a crude map of the Senate building, with little X’s marking supply closets and unused alcoves. “Okay, listen up. I’ve mapped the entire east wing. There are three ventilation shafts wide enough to crawl through, two abandoned caf stations, and—this is key—a storage room on Level 47 that still has furniture.” Barriss leaned forward, frowning. “You broke into the Senate archives again.” “I didn’t break in. I just… wandered in while nobody was looking. The guards know me by now. They just wave.” “That’s concerning.” But Barriss’s lips twitched. She pulled out her own contribution: a small datachip. “I cross-referenced the rotation schedules for the diplomatic security details. If we time our breaks during the Credential Verification Phase, we have approximately twelve minutes of uninterrupted freedom before anyone notices we’re gone.” Caleb finished his ration bar and crumpled the wrapper into his pocket. “You plotted the guards’ bathroom breaks?” “I plotted efficiency gaps,” Barriss corrected primly. “It’s different.” “It’s beautiful,” Ahsoka said, genuinely impressed. “I knew you had it in you.” A muffled thud echoed from somewhere deeper in the hangar. All three froze. Caleb’s hand inched toward the lightsaber clipped to his belt. Ahsoka killed the glowrod, plunging them into darkness thick with the smell of grease and old fuel. They waited. Breathing shallow. Counting heartbeats. A clatter. A low curse. Then a familiar monotone voice: “—told you the left turbine was unstable. Now we have to requisition a new coupling, and you know how the quartermaster gets.” “The schematic said—” “The schematic is older than you, vod. Shut up and hand me the hydrospanner.” Ahsoka let out a breath. Mechanics. Just late-shift mechanics. She flicked the glowrod back on, and the shadows jumped away. Caleb slumped. “I think I aged three years.” “You’re twelve,” Barriss said. “You don’t have years to spare.” “That’s exactly my point.” Ahsoka snorted, then pulled a small container from her belt pouch. “Speaking of survival supplies.” She opened it to reveal a stack of thin, flaky pastries, drizzled with sweet syrup. “Stolen from the Senatorial commissary. They’re called nuna tarts.” Caleb’s eyes went wide. “You’re a goddess.” “I know.” They ate in comfortable silence, passing the container around. The syrup was sticky on their fingers. Barriss, despite her earlier composure, took three tarts before reluctantly handing them back. The hangar hummed around them—distant engines, creaking metal, the soft whisper of Coruscant’s endless night traffic filtering through the bay’s magnetic field. “We should have a code,” Ahsoka said suddenly, licking syrup off her thumb. “For emergencies. Something we can say in front of the Masters.” Barriss considered. “Something innocuous. Like… ‘The sky is very blue today.’” “That’s terrible,” Caleb said. “Nobody says that. It sounds weird.” “Fine. You suggest something.” He thought about it. “‘I’m hungry.’ That’s normal for me. Master Billaba never questions it.” Ahsoka snapped her fingers. “Perfect. ‘I’m hungry’ means ‘I need backup, and possibly a snack.’ Barriss?” Barriss sighed, but her eyes glinted with hidden amusement. “I suppose I can learn to say it with appropriate urgency.” “Then it’s official.” Ahsoka wiped her hands on her leggings and stood, offering a hand to each of them. “The survival club has a code. We have maps. We have pastries. We are unstoppable.” Caleb took her hand, hauling himself up. “Until Master Yoda finds out.” “Master Yoda knows everything,” Barriss said drily. “He’s probably watching us right now through the Force and eating popcorn.” They shared a look—equal parts terror and delight. Then Ahsoka laughed, bright and unguarded, and the sound echoed off the durasteel walls like a challenge to the universe. “Good,” she said. “Then we’ll give him a show.”