Chapter Eight
A vague, hazy overcast clouded Thasyin's usual brilliance as the gondola glided over the bobbing waters of the return dock. The calls of loaders seemed muted more than usual as they competed with the constant whine of gondolas and the shrill beeping and twittering of traffic droids guiding barge loads in and out of Thasyin's canal thoroughfares. Sabé welcomed the need to concentrate as she guided her small gondola into its return slot. Not until she was stepping onto the solid platform did she let her focus return to its center, to her second return.
The dock buzzed around her, tweaking her senses; voices pounded into her ears, distinctive and droning at once; her eyes roved the swirling splashes of color as people, droids, and animals moved about. She felt attuned and detached, as if experiencing it all through a very thin screen. To the casual observer, she moved gracefully, steadily, but Sabé could feel the hesitancy in her steps, feel the balky shift of weight in her feet. If she were at liberty, she'd fancy the dock eternal and her steps only a timeless path in another life.
Now was not the time for fancy.
Now was the time for action.
For amending her error, her weakness. She mustn't fail.
Sabé gritted her teeth.
Silly girl.
Before she even reached the end of the dock, Sabé spotted the figure she needed, but a little jolt in her chest made her wish it had taken longer. That she had not been there. Held up or unfaithful or—Veruna bless it—untrustworthy.
A slight woman stood at the end of the return dock, spooning a dish of cold sweet cream as she casually watched the activity around her. Glossy, dark hair was gathered back into a braided bun at the nap of her neck. Although she wore sensible, businesslike maroon and navy, she carried a young, whimsical air about her. Her forceful nose and strong chin pointed to mischief and a rare but impressive temper.
The last Sabé had seen of Saché Orzkal had been her friend's sympathetic but warning look before Padmé delivered the shocking blow.
I have already spoken with the others . . .
Sabé's jaw tightened.
As if sensing her, Saché's dark, keen eyes spotted Sabé. Her familiar face swam in a mixture of joy, excitement, curiosity, and hesitance before old handmaiden training locked naked emotion away behind a quiet, guarded face. Just as her voice had been last night.
Sabé started toward her, last night's transmission playing through her mind.
"I didn't know if you would comm—I mean, I knew you would, why would you not? Oh, there's so much to—"
"I cannot speak of this. I need your help. You may refuse."
Curt and emotionless. She cut Saché's every attempt to connect, to speak to Sabé. This was business. This was the headdress, the hoods, the shadows. The handmaiden had taken over, but Sabé had heard the strain of hurt underneath the clipped tones matching hers.
"So much I want to ask," Saché sighed, when they concluded.
"You cannot."
"Ah, so are you Republic ops?"
"I cannot say."
"Youare!" Pause. "I know, I know, cannot confirm or deny. Trust me, I know."
Better to let her believe it, Sabé knew. Saché could not know her help—help given from loyalty and the deep friendship that once bound them—would bear her former Queen's husband's death.
I have already spoken to the others . . .
Amidala had not been the only betrayal. Sabé focused on this as she met Saché Orzkal's gaze and stopped before her former friend.
Saché's eyes widened, making her childlike as she held her dessert bowl, a little cream dotting her top lip.
"Sabé," she said quietly, almost warily. Wonderment flicked across her face, escaping the familiar mask of handmaiden stoicism. "I—I can hardly believe it."
Sabé stared back coolly. Saché had known. They all had.
Something unfamiliar flickered across Saché's face as Sabé remained silent and expressionless. "You look . . . different," Saché said slowly, a frown tugging at her mouth. "I don't want to saw drawn, but—yes, you look drawn."
Sabé could not say her old friend's bluntness was comforting.
"Oh, for galaxy's sake—say something, Sabé!"
"Is there a place we can discuss the arrangements?"
Saché sighed and slowly stirred her melting dessert. "Yes," she said resignedly. "Your ship—if that's all right with you. Really, it's more secure than, say, a small, out of the way café."
Sabé nodded and set off, murmuring, "I'm sure you know the way already."
Saché assented. She disposed of her dessert and matched Sabé's brisk but seemingly unhurried pace. A handmaiden walk for errands: undisruptive but efficient and quick. The former decoy could feel Saché's appraising glances as they left the back docks of Thasyin to a corral of speeders and carts. Saché motioned to a small two-seater in an exclusive, marked-off row for easy access. Wordlessly they started off across Thasyin to Sabé's let hangar, Sabé unwilling to speak and Saché, perhaps, afraid to.
Out of the corner of eye, Sabé studied Saché. Contacting her had been a desperate, probably weak move. Only weeks ago, Sabé would have harbored fantasies of being reunited with her nearly lifelong friend, of recovering the last good bits of her past life. But failing at this mission forced a cold reality upon the former handmaiden.
It helped somewhat.
If only somewhat.
"I know I'm not the most intuitive person, Sabé," Saché said as they sped along the winding streets, "but I'm sensing you are avoiding what must be said."
Sabé stared straight ahead. They were nearing the hangar and their speeder decelerated. Saché flashed her pass to the patrol droid and proceeded to the small bay where Sabé's Lorian waited. Before she had even contacted Saché, Sabé had considered the possibility of Naboo security already seizing the small cruiser and waiting to pounce on and arrest her. But, despite everything, despite herself, she trusted Saché to hold her secrets just as she had in school.
Sabé glanced across at the other former handmaiden. Saché switched off the speeder and met Sabé's eye.
"I wish you weren't a stranger," she said quietly.
Sabé turned away and got out. The security droid cleared them through, and Sabé felt a small bit of relief to find her instincts had not failed her. The Lorian rested quietly, untouched and surrounded only by the smooth, curving walls of the bay. As far as she could tell by stretching out with the Force, everything was intact and unharmed.
Still, apprehension hummed through her as she led Saché in through the hatch. Without bothering to 'tour' the small vessel, Sabé dropped her satchel on the sleep bench and turned to face Saché with raised, expectant eyebrows.
"I recognize this ship," Saché murmured, her eyes roving the simple, efficient contours. A hint of glee crinkled the corners of her eyes. "It's a Republic special ops vessel. Older and less known, but I've got a good eye for them. So, that settles it."
She turned to Sabé, looked her up and down, and then took a deep breath. "I just can't believe it." Then, in a stronger, accusing voice: "What happened to you? You just left! How could you disappear like that without telling me? We were best friends once!"
"Oh, really?" Sabé arched an eyebrow.
"Not sure I like how you said that." Saché shook her head. "No. Really. What happened? Amidala only told us you two had a disagreement, and you decided to leave because of it."
Sabé snorted. "That's dung if I ever heard it."
"So, then what really happened?"
"I thought you knew. You all did," Sabé said accusingly.
Saché's eyes were wide with loss.
Suddenly it became a little clearer, a little harder. I really should have killed Skywalker at her wedding. Speaking coldly, distantly, Sabé said, "She dismissed me. Without honor."
"No!"
"Yes."
"No!"
Sabé waited. Saché shook her head as if to clear it, then blinked at Sabé as understanding dawned on her face.
"But why would she—? She dismissed all of us, but why you in such a way? We all had our theories, of course . . ."
Sabé waved a hand dismissively. "I don't want to discuss it." She shot the other woman a hard look. "I want to know why you did not tell me she would be dismissing us."
"What do you mean?"
Ireally should have ruined her wedding. "Amidala told me she discussed our dismissal with all of you before she tossed me out."
"No," said Saché, shaking her head, dismay splashed across her face. "No, she didn't. About a week after you . . . left, she told us her decision to phase us out for senatorial handmaidens. Rabé thought it had to do with you, but Eirtaé thought it premeditative—anyway, she kept us on till term ended and had us train Dormé and Cordé. Frankly, I didn't mind so much. I felt a little, I don't know—insulted?—but I was getting rather bored, anyway. I've had my eye on Intelligence for awhile . . . Still." She gesticulated at nothing in particular, asking for forgiveness from Sabé. "I didn't know. If I had, I would have told you. I know how much being a handmaiden meant to you."
Sabé looked away. "It doesn't matter." Then she assumed her business face and voice, knowing she sounded dangerously close to her decoy voice. "To business. Skywalker's transport off-planet."
"Yes." Saché stared blithely at Sabé for a long moment. "I'll have you know, I do not buy your sketchy explanation as towhy you must know this. If the Senator's safety is in any sort of jeopardy, it is my duty as both Naboo intelligence and handmaiden to see it is not."
Sabé shrugged. "You will just have to accept this. I cannot tell you why I must know. Surely an intelligence officer understands."
Saché shook her head. "I just do not understand you anymore."
Sabé kept still and expressionless. The words seeped past her, like sullen rain over smooth hull.
"Fine." Saché produced a small datachip from an inner pocket in her long, flared sleeves. "I compiled the information for you. Skywalker's ship number, cargo manifest, its docking and schedule—everything. He disembarks on Wydrillion. I think he's meeting someone there—" She paused, shrewd and sly. "I can only guess who, and I think you know."
Sabé opened her palm for the small chip.
"Fine." Saché dropped it into her palm and crossed her arms. Sabé examined the chip carefully before pocketing it in her compact little utility belt. She wanted to leave, wanted Saché to be gone. Yet again she could almost feel what it would have been like had things been different. The memories would be good, of school days in Thasyin where her insecurities cumulated in silly worries over social interaction and a childish crush, of nights spent gossiping and chattering over life in the palace and teasing the Queen through her irritable moods . . .
No good could come from thinking like this. What was done was done. She could not think about Saché and what might have been, nor could she fully consider the part Saché unwittingly just played in, quite perhaps, ruining Amidala's life.
"Thank you, Saché," she said, finally. It tasted like a lie. A horrible, twisted lie. Metallic and rusted through.
Saché smiled a little sadly, and Sabé could not quite sustain her gaze. "I'm sorry. For everything, you know." Hurt filtered through. "I just wish you trusted me enough to have told me. Or say good-bye."
She wanted to say, "I trust you completely. Even when I thought you betrayed me. It is you who should not trust me."
Instead, Sabé only said, "I'm sorry, too." Then she gestured to the hatch.
Saché nodded. Just before she dropped out of sight, she turned back around. "We are not friends, are we?"
"I don't know." Ah, how honest the liar is now.
Saché turned and disappeared, her departure silent enough to make Panaka proud. Sabé stared for a long moment at the gape left behind. The meeting, reunion, did not feel real. Had she felt during it? Should she have? Already, before it had time to form memory, it had passed it into the fading, hazy lace of old daydreams.
She closed the hatch and went to the computer console in the forward compartment. Reading the chip's contents, her mind settled into plotting.
Having a ship more or less of one's own can be very convenient in certain situations not involving meticulous assassination. When attempting to assassinate a Jed in-transit, with a very small window of opportunity, said ship can become a cumbersome burden. According to Saché's thorough research and scheduling, Sabé had a small time frame to destroy Skywalker aboard the Kaadu Majest before he reached Wydrillion. Ideally, she could target him aboard the cargo and passenger ship out of sight from other travelers, and then deposit the body somewhere on board and disembark and be gone before anyone noticed. The Lorian, however, remained a problem. She could book a placement in the hold—Saché had provided access—but this would draw more eyes. She could also leave the ship behind on Naboo, but then she must return for it. All in all, it was too much maneuvering for the short trip to Wydrillion, and even then, she may not find the opportune moment.
So, Sabé found her third option. Lessen her opportunities by traveling less conspicuously. Saché, bless her naivety, provided Sabé a complete timetable of ships for and leaving Wydrillion. She had dock numbers, routes, alternatives, loading and unloading, check-ins, customs . . . everything. The former handmaiden did note, however, that she could not specify which ship the Jedi were arriving in. She had contact with the Order due to the assassination attempts on Senator Amidala and correlating Skywalker's return with the needs of the Jedi. But since the Jedi were traveling privately and under impending war circumstances, they were not listed.
Saché added as a side note: The Jedi know nothing of the holiday, of course. Originally she would drop him off on W when she returned to C, but alas, less public, the better.
Piecing together Saché and Yoda's information, Sabé left Naboo for Wydrillion. Speaking to the Jedi Master over her failure was difficult, but it had to be done. Yoda had been curt, his words seeming to come from within her rather than across a vast galaxy. She must do and be done with it. The best negotiators in the Order were being dispensed across the galaxy to worlds wavering in uncertainty over the Republic's official pronouncement of war. The Jedi, with their limited fleet, were ship-pooling to nervous systems. Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker were assigned to Wydrillion.
The Lorian prismed out of hyperspace into the Outer Rim receiving ring. Other ships, mostly freighters and combination passenger/cargo, were also reverting. Although she was in relatively dead space, Sabé could just make out the winking of ships jumping Coreward and Mid-Rim. Two small caravans, one including freighters for Alderaan and Corellia, were slowly approaching starboard to the Outer Rim jump quadrant. Spaceport patrol ships guided and flanked the caravans, their orange hulls and rotating band of pulsing lights making them easy to spot.
Traveling under a private license pass, Sabé was able to bypass the customs trajectory and head for her given bay.
Wydrillion was not a planet. The system only had one planet, which remained uninhabited due to the ferocious, toxic storms that raged within the sphere. Droid expeditions into the black swirl of a planet usually ended in fruitless investment and scientific frustration. Five moons orbited the seemingly invisible globe. The three main satellites—Wydr I, II, and II—supported life on their own, and IV and V provided spaceports and mineral mines. Despite laying away from the main trade runs, Wydrillion had become a useful and key spaceport to the Outer Rim and Edge Worlds, as well as an alternative route for the Mid-Rims.
Sabé understood the Republic and Jedi's concern for the trade post. By being so far from the Republic, Wydrillion had become an element of its own. The Trade Federation had long ago turned up its nose at the "upstart" post, leading other major corporations and businesses to also overlook its potential. However, with increasing taxes and tariffs, as well as fighting over trade lanes, some had turned enterprising eyes onto the black planet and its five moons. Sabé remembered listening to her father speak of Wydrillion. To a small merchant, it meant breaking even, coming a little more on top. Here he could save fuel and fare. Bidding not exactly outlawed by the Republic but definitely 'discouraged' by the Trade Federation flourished. Wydrillion, as Sabé came to understand it, was the merchant's more upscale and legal Tatooine.
But the Republic stood to lose this thrift port of guilds and privateers. In the past year, the Separatists worked to bring Wydrillion under their fold. Although the Trade Federation was one of Wydrillion's iconic adversaries, the offer was appealing, the mission statement reflective of the spaceport's own atmosphere. If Wydrillion seceded from the Republic, other spaceports and systems would follow.
Systems seceding . . . war declared . . . a clone army of the Republic . . . It all seemed so unreal. Wars were read about in history texts, learned about in school. She knew many systems in the Republic had inner wars—she had not known how many until she lived under the Jedi—but it still felt foreign. Displaced and wrong.
War, however, was not her current concern.
TheKaadu Majest moaned with a whining sigh as its engines wound down into their cooling cycle. Powerful, thick 'legs' anchored the mottled ship to the docking bay. Its bow stretched out to the bridge; the graceful arch curved over the gravsleds and carts buzzing around the ship, like its amphibious burden namesake searching for treats. As the engines continued their long sigh, customs officials at the terminal prepared for disembarking passengers.
Crouched spider-like on a support strut even with the ship's bridge, Sabé watched the scene unfold. Her sight was sharp, the Force humming tightly around her as she waited in the high shadows. It would be a little longer before the passengers were allowed off the Kaadu Majest, even a Jedi. She knew every hatch, every outlet on the vessel, knew where to keep her eyes moving in event Skywalker preferred singular exits. This bay, Force bless it, rested at the end of a long terminal. If Skywalker exited starboard, he would be met with only two choices: wall or coming around the hull to portside. No service exits, no ventilation shafts.
Sabé scoured the bay below her as she waited for the Naboo ship to release its passengers. Yoda had told her estimation when Kenobi would be dropped off on Wydrillion. She had little hope the Jedi transport would be delayed, but she had not seen any sign of the dispatched Knight as of yet. Still, she kept her senses alert.
Risking a brief lapse, she checked the dart gun in her hand again. Nothing could go wrong this time. When she looked out again, she saw the scene anew, let it pierce her again. After a moment, she decided to adjust her position. Moving silently and swiftly, a mere whisper in the criss-crossing shadows, Sabé moved closer. Beneath her but so close, bay crews bustled about. A small freighter was approaching, its thrusters hissing as it glided in beside the Kaadu Majest. It looked clumsy and awkward next to the Majest's organic design.
A green light blinked along the Majest's pedestrian way. Sabé's senses flared in anticipation as the passenger hatchway opened.
A tingle danced along the back of her neck.
Sabé's eyes snapped away from the first passengers to a hooded figure approaching up the terminal. Although his face was lost in the hood's shadow, she knew the slow swish of the robe, knew the play on her senses. Her stomach contracted as she pulled the Force tighter around her.
Damn it.
Her mind flashed to the last time she'd encountered the Jedi in a spaceport. Two years ago. She had been sick, feverish, infected by a virus on a world she had just left.
The current of people swirled around her, dizzying and pounding. Sabé wiped the sweat off her cold brow and pulled her cloak tightly around her. She'd lost sight of Master Hon'tal and her Padawan, but that was fine. Different mission now. Yoda said to return if she could, but—what was it? Seek medical attention. Yes, that was it.
Butwhere was it?
She tried to separate the blurred colors. A flash of brown topped in orange—Hon'tal, there she goes! No help. She needed to stop, she needed to breath. The colors, the noise—
She must have halted, or the current changed, or—
Sabé shook her head, trying to clear it. Pain shot up her knees. Was that blood on her palms? Someone pushed her, there's a foot . . . "Watch where you're going, already!" Think, Sabé, think! Back to Maghull—no, Coruscant—Yoda, he'll know what to do.
The fever had not been this bad when she'd left. Sabé bit her lip and sucked in deep breaths through her nose. She had to focus. The fever did not affect humans as badly as the Maghus, but if it was not treated soon . . .
Grunting under the effort, she stood up and stumbled forward with the crowd. She had to find transport to Coruscant. Plenty to be had here, so Coreward. Jedi used this all the time. Main jump point. Yes. She wiped her brow again and blinked at the boards flashing above her. A ship roared to life to her left. The fever was making her tingle now. Odd, she didn't remember that symptom.
Ah, that terminal, she needed the red line.
Sabé stumbled toward the horizontal lifts. She fought shivers inside her cloak. Her muscles ached. Maybe she should have stayed on Maghull. But, no, too stubborn. Yoda would rap her with his stick for this.
" . . . how many times, Anakin? How many? No, don't answer that. We will be thankful your impulsive antics did not erupt into planetary war. Again."
"You're embellishing, Master. Besides, it wasn't my fault."
She knew those voices. They were coming up behind her. Familiar, oh they could help—wait, no, no they could not. She knew them, but they mustn't know her. She tried to quicken her pace.
"The problem with the galaxy, Padawan, is that no one accepts anything is his or her fault."
"I think the galaxy spends too much time placing blame. Master."
"Placing blame is one thing. Taking responsibility for one's actions—that, Anakin, is another. Unfortunately, the latter is the galaxy's weak point."
"And apparently mine, too. That's what you're sa—"
The world spun. A hand caught her elbow, cupping it as she stumbled.
"Steady on, steady on."
Tingles raced up her arm and the Forced buzzed. Sabé tried to grasp it and pull it in, but it slipped through like water. She tried to stand as her head pounded and the air swam . . .
"Are you all right, miss?"
Sabé blinked and shook her head to clear it. Bad idea. She pressed a palm to her forehead, moaning. "No. Yes."
"Can we be of any assistance?" Hand on her elbow. Steadying, soothing, tingling.
"No." Don't look at him. Get out. Get away.
"Are you sure?"
"N—yes. Yes, I'm fine." Sabé jerked her elbow away but the floor moved again. She blinked and gritted her teeth. It steadied, the floor. Move away, move away.
"Wait—do I know you from somewhere?"
No, no.
Away, away, get away.
His voice faded away.
Sabé snapped back to the present. She stared down at the hooded form of Obi-Wan Kenobi, a feeling like cold, heavy old porridge in her gut. It had not occurred to her until now, seeing him. It was not just Skywalker, a wayward apprentice, she would be 'ending,' but she would be depriving Kenobi of his Padawan. He stood to lose his chance at Mastership. And, possibly, quite more.
Yoda will watch over him.
So be it.
One Jedi Knight, check. The Padawan . . .
There.
Anakin Skywalker emerged from the passenger barrier, his lanky form swathed in his near-black cloak. He carried nothing, but as he lifted his right arm to suggest the Aqualish couple move to the side, Sabé caught a glint of docking light in his arm plating. The arm dropped quickly, as if skittish under keen eyes. The Padawan slipped through the passengers, an eel weaving through rocks.
Sabé lifted her dart gun, pulled the Force around her.
Skywalker paused, his former consternation clearing from his face as he focused on the task: finding his Master.
Now.
A simple, definite twitch of the finger.
The dart shot down, singing.
Skywalker whirled.
Sabé felt the surge in the Force, the spike of Skywalker twisting around in that fraction of a second between her and him. He froze, as if to let light catch up to his movement. The dart was stopped between his thumb and forefinger, like a deadly song caught in the throat.
Fierce, icy eyes lifted up, followed the dart's invisible path.
Run.
She was already spinning on her right heel as Skywalker's eyes met hers. RUN! No shadow game, no cloak, nothing could hide her from him.
Sabé leaped down to the service walk suspended above the pedestrian way, her landing light and almost silent as she called the Force into her run. She heard two shouts behind her, knew the Jedi were after her.
Up over a rail, up onto the crossing walk, under a strut, down to another walk.
She felt a new vibration under her feet. One of the Jedi had leapt on. Another would be on the ground. Pull ahead, flank her. Sabé reached out and swung up into the beams again, feeling them as much as seeing them. There . . . down below, a moving walkway and lifts. Get out of the terminal. Separate the Jedi.
Skywalker was in the struts. Kenobi had to be down below.
Sabé worked her way across to the other side of the terminal, her path moving steadily downward while seeming to zigzag. Skywalker gained behind her, opting for a more straightforward path to her left. On the ground behind her, Kenobi would have met the barrier wall reaching up to the catwalks.
When she judged the drop to not be fatal or injury-inducing, she leapt. A gravsled swerved to miss her, but she was already sprinting onto the moving walkway and shoving past pedestrians. More shouts behind her meant Skywalker was still in hot pursuit.
She burst out of the terminal wing into the lift and switch hub.
A gravsled loaded with luggage lumbered across the way. Sabé unsheathed the vibroblade along her arm, digging the blade along the hold panel as she spun past. The sled tipped and luggage tumbled out, spilling forth into the crowd. She dove into a service corridor she'd spotted earlier, and only then chanced a glance back.
Skywalker was just coming around the mess of luggage and disturbed, angry people. A Twi'lek woman grabbed his sleeve, shouting in Huttese at him and gesturing at her companion, who was trying to lift a large case off his leg.
Sabé faded back, her hand moving to the pouch of darts on her hip. If he got clear, she could get another shot.
Her fingers just brushed the canisters when Skywalker apparently spotted the corridor. She was completely lost in the shadows, but his danger-senses were full-on. He tossed the angry Twi'lek aside and sprinted for Sabé.
She whirled down the corridor to the service stairs and took them three at a time. Skywalker's heavier footfalls echoed up to her. When she got him close enough, she vaulted over the rail and dropped pinlike down the stairwell. She heard him swear furiously.
The landing was hard, almost wrenching. But she couldn't stop, couldn't let her joints even begin to absorb it.
She was out of the stairwell and into the next hub and terminal wing. Good. She slowed her pace enough to blend into the crushing tide of passengers hungry from their just-arrived Mid-Rim flight.
Before she even stepped outside into Wydr V's twilight, she felt him following her. The familiar tingle played along the nape of her neck. Sabé weaved, seeping through the seemingly solid wall of people. She edged along the outside walkway, saw the drop below and the level above, smelt the burn of thrusters.
A mercantile crew was trying to nudge through. Sabé gave way—
--and started to swing up onto the support strut—
--something pushed her.
She slammed down onto the rail, pain hissing through her teeth. He grabbed her arm, twisting her around, but she kicked out, hard. He grunted and pushed her back into the rail—he was going to pin her—
With an enormous effort, she pulled as he pushed, snapping her back around as she called on the Force. They rolled over the rail, the steel cold and hard as her body curved around it. She snatched the middle rail with her hands as he went over her and the rail and down.
Her feet caught the wall before her body could slam into it. She pushed off and somersaulted back over the rail just as Skywalker came bursting out onto the walkway.
Sabé needed to catch her breath.
Too bad.
Only vaguely wondering if he knew she'd just dropped his master, Sabé sprinted across the walkway, her mind focused on drawing Skywalker away from Kenobi. Again. This time for good.
Get to the ship.
The walkway curved around. Sabé leaped up onto the network of open-air windows between the two levels. Using the ledges like a ladder, she climbed to the roof of the covered bridge between two terminals. Ahead was the hangar with her ship. Hit Anakin near enough to it for quick escape. Or, if worse came to worse, draw him into the ship and finish it.
Her lungs started to burn as she sprinted over the bridge. Wind whipped at her, pushing her, slowing her.
Skywalker was right behind. Gaining, gaining fast.
Sabé felt the darts again. Still running, she loaded the gun, knowing the action would cost her speed. She was nearing the end of the bridge, the outdoor tier of walkways and balconies were beginning, the pilot's club, the guild headquarters—
They were both on the bridge. Two separate sprinting vibrations—oh, they blurred.
The bridge ended.
Sabé whirled, drawing on her reserve to sight as she fired her double-load.
Skywalker, a running blur almost upon her, twisted.
He stumbled slightly, a hand flying to his neck.
She was down in the open tier top, loading again. A blur—Kenobi—she barreled into him with her elbow and shoulders, but he caught her elbows like a child and stepped aside, letting her crash past with an extra toss. The dart gun skittered across the floor, her ankle twisted a little—but she was up. The gun—the gun—
WHAM!
Skywalker slammed into her.
Down they went, skidding over the sloping edge of the service ramp, falling, tumbling, rolling. They rolled over the ramp edge and fell, fell . . .
They slammed onto the hangar below.
Breath left, pain shot through her body.
She fought past the pain. Skywalker absorbed most of the fall. Most of it. Sabé had a second to notice their tangled limbs and the floor number—and then Skywalker sucked in a deep breath and rolled over.
He wrenched one arm under her body as he pinned her to the floor. She hissed as black spots danced before her eyes. His knees dug into her legs, pressing them to the floor as he put his weight on her. His face twisted in pain and anger as he glared down at her.
"WHO ARE YOU?"
She lifted her chin as best she could and glared defiantly at him. He wrenched her arm more. She winched but did not answer.
"ANSWER ME!"
It was then that she noticed the blood.
It flowed freely from a line along his neck. Warm, metallic drops fell like sickening rain onto her face. The collar of his tunic was black with it. A flesh wound, nicked the surface. Had it been enough? Or did the toxin bleed out? He should be dead by now . . .
"WHO ARE YOU? WHO DO YOU WORK FOR?"
Spittle flew from his mouth. His eyes were red around the hateful blue. He was white, he was shaking. The blood, his blood was all over her. A devil, she was staring up at a devil.
"ANSWER ME, DAMN YOU!"
He twisted her arm out and around.
She cried out.
Pain exploded through her arm and torso.
"Answer me," he hissed. Even through her agony, he sounded weak, wavering. The artificial arm pinning her right arm felt less steady, less controlled. His weight was burdensome, not strategic. His eyes were glazed with something other than pure fury.
She couldn't feel her left arm. Just pain throbbing, pulsing—
The vibroblade was along her right arm.
With her last reserve, she twisted and struck.
Skywalker screamed.
More twisting.
Excruciating pain ripping along her side—the blade—
Gasping, Sabé rolled and stumbled to her feet. Skywalker swore violently in gargled words as he tried to crawl for her. She looked around—there was the Lorian. So close, so far. Was Skywalker—? Would he—?
He somehow got to his feet.
"Anakin!"
Was she running? She had to—the Lorian. Hatch. Skywalker—right there—get him in, get him in—separate Jedi—separate—hatch—
He plowed into her, feral and screaming.
"ANAKIN!"
Sabé saw him running, almost here—
Her palm hit the console. The hatch door slammed shut.
"Wha—what have you—done to—"
Gods, the pain . . . Sabé turned to see Skywalker against the bulkhead, his head lolling as his eyes twitched and rolled wildly. His one hand covered his neck, blood caking on his fingers while his artificial arm clutched his bleeding side.
Someone was pounding on the hull. The hull shrieked in protest . . . lightsaber, probably . . . She struggled to breathe, to blink past the black dots . . . oh, Force . . .
She saw a tear in the cloth of his upper arm. Had she nicked him there, too? She couldn't tell. He was becoming blurry. Or was it her? Sabé squinted. A faint glow seemed to radiate like a mythical aura around Skywalker's slumped, convulsing body.
I'm dying. I must be dying.
Skywalker stilled. She couldn't hear him breathe.
So hard to breathe.
The glowing intensified, her vision danced.
Skywalker's eyes snapped open. He gasped, coming up for air.
Air left her completely. Sucked straight from her lungs.
She tried to gasp. No air to cry out as she fell on her side, no air to scream as she landed on her useless arm. The glow around Skywalker darkened, almost becoming a shadow. Or was that her suffocating?
Skywalker stared at her. Shock.
Understanding.
He reached out with his left hand. The bleeding stopped on his neck.
Understanding.
The shadows fell over him, onto her.
He . . . he's . . . sucking the life out of me . . .
Black.
