Chapter Nine

She came to rather suddenly, as if someone had dowsed her in cold, metallic water. But then she went under again. Only a breath of oxygen, then more drowning, only now it actually felt like drowning—it felt.

She came up again, a little sluggish and very cold.

Sabé slowly opened her eyes, wishing she could absorb everything slowly. But harsh, artificial light filled her pupils, striking her head with pain. The aching, dying embers of fire coursed up her arm. She felt recycled air work through her lungs, a tangy solid after drowning for so long. Hard, cold floor hummed almost imperceptibly beneath her aching body. Her arms—oh, it ached—her arms—

Alarm shot through her, jerking her. She hissed with pain as her head bumped against something hard. Swearing softly, she let the spots dance a moment, and then her vision cleared. It all became painfully clear.

Sabé recognized the small cargo hold of her cruiser. What did not rest easily in her mind, however, were her arms pulled behind her and locked around the strong pole of the cargo rack. She twisted around, feeling cruel irony mocking her as the wrist shackles dinged against the pole.

"Phreg it all," she muttered.

This, essentially, was not good.

Sabé closed her eyes and tilted her head gently against the pole. Find the center, let it flow but not flood . . .

She was alive, yes. It felt horrible.

She was being held prisoner. In her own cargo hold. That really felt horrible.

The last thing she remembered . . . Skywalker, seeming to glow and then fall into shadow, gasping . . . she was gasping, she couldn't breathe, felt everything draining away and then nothing . . . Was he alive?

Sabé opened her eyes and shifted gingerly. She'd never felt so drained, so sore in the very core of her body. The last image to fill her head sent a shudder through her body. She grunted hoarsely as her shoulder protested. Her shoulder . . . she remembered that . . . and the vibroblade. Unfortunate she wounded herself in that, but she'd got Skywalker—was he alive?

Or had she finished him and now was being held prisoner by Kenobi?

And what if Skywalker lived?

He better be dead, if she were to be held captive by a Jedi, Sabé thought emotionlessly.

She breathed deeply, and felt great consternation at the effort it seemed to take. How could she be so exhausted? Something with her shoulder—dislocated maybe—and the vibro-wound—

Sabé looked down at her grey-clad torso, frowning. A clear slash had been cut through it and the fabric was blackened with dried blood—hers, mostly. Through the tear she could make out a pale, sticky yellow that an exploratory sniff confirmed to be a bacta patch.

She was just pondering over this when her senses perked up. Then the cargo hold's hatch swung open with a faint hiss and she instantly set her face.

"I see you're awake," Obi-Wan Kenobi said, entering the small hold.

Sabé knew it would be him, but she felt a painful little jolt in her chest nonetheless. Still, she raised her chin as he regarded her and met his stare.

No emotion, no emotion.

Obi-Wan Kenobi had changed since Naboo, yet something about the Jedi Knight seemed much the same. He'd grown his spice-colored hair out and pulled comfortably back in a small tail, but some renegade strands around his face managed to escape and play about his face and eyes. The stern furrow in his brow had deepened, but his blue-grey eyes, though regarding her coldly, were framed with telling crinkles of quiet mirth. Yet it was the beard that caught her attention and, if under different circumstances, amused her. To Sabé at least, it seemed the Jedi could not decide between growing a full beard in a blatant attempt to project authority over his wayward Padawan or remain in his youth as long as possible. Whatever the reason, she thought the light, trim thing looked rather indecisive.

But, of course, she would not tell him so.

"I do hope you are in a talkative mood," he said, crossing his arms.

Yes, some things had not changed.

Sabé did not respond, but her mind was ticking. Was Skywalker alive? Did Obi—Kenobi—know who she was?

"Ah, perhaps you are shy." Obi-Wan leaned against the bulkhead casually, conveying nonchalance and foreboding seamlessly. "I'm sure you noticed we took the pleasure of borrowing your ship? Yes—we." He shot her a hard, cold look.

Sabé's jaw tightened. So Skywalker had survived, after all.

"Forgive my lack of warm hospitality," he said blandly, nodding to her shackled position, "but I'm sure you understand. I did, however, set your shoulder."

Sabé couldn't help but glance down at the dull, aching joint. When she looked up again, she found him watching her knowingly, as if he could read her displeasure. Obi-Wan had the field training and mastered ability to heal this minor wound; the pain could be gone, her shoulder as good as or better than before. But, obviously, he felt little benevolence toward her.

"There was just enough bacta in your medical to see to that wound after I saw to my Padawan." Obi-Wan stepped toward her, his air of conversation vanishing with the silent swish of his cloak.

"Why did you try to kill Anakin Skywalker?"

Sabé said nothing.

Obi-Wan's frown seemed to deepen, yet she could not actually detect the movement. "You will answer me," he said, uncrossing his arms to rest on his hips.

The corner of her mouth twitched, but she stayed silent. She should not be amused by his attempt.

"Ah, yes. I thought so." A sly flicker in his eyes.

And then, toying with her, he said nothing else. Sabé refrained from rolling her eyes. She would not give in to this battle of wills. Not this time.

But . . . she couldn't help but worry . . . what did he think? Did he know who she was? Or did he just sense the Force about her? How much did he know? And what state was Skywalker in?

The only thing she knew for certain was this: Skywalker was alive and she failed. She was also in deep.

And she did not want Obi-Wan to know who she was.

The Jedi seemed unperturbed by her silence.

"Let us try a primitive form of communication," he said. "I ask you questions, and you answer them." Obi-Wan paused, as if to let her reply. "Who are you and why did you try to kill Anakin Skywalker?"

Again, Sabé said nothing.

"Who hired you?"

Silence.

"It is better for you to answer. But I can wait." Obi-Wan smiled faintly. "Anakin has conditioned my patience." The mirth left his face as he knelt down to her eye level.

Sabé concentrated on keeping her back straight, on not blinking, on meeting his cold face straight on. She had wanted to avoid this. Had kept it so far from her mind in all this. Look away, look away, she wanted to look away

"Are you one of the bounty hunters killing Padawans?" Obi-Wan demanded. She could feel as well as hear the heat in his words; something close to anger broiled darkly in his eyes.

No! she wanted to shout. But she could not. Not a word, not a sound. She must reveal nothing. Keep the shadow game, keep her shields up. Stone, she must be stone.

Obi-Wan stared hard, inwardly, at Sabé. She knew what was coming and braced herself as she felt the Force shift. No. He would get nothing from her.

After a long moment, Obi-Wan refocused. The subtle pressure around her eased. The Jedi Knight's stern face softened subtly to a thoughtful look as he knelt motionless before her. Then his gaze dropped down to her torso.

Sabé jerked back as he reached out. The Jedi paused and looked at her, a hint of gentleness at the corner of his eyes.

"I am only checking the bacta patch," he said quietly.

Sabé could not tell him it was not assault she feared. She tried to give him her finest glare but had to look away as Obi-Wan gingerly lifted the hem of her torn tunic. She silently cursed the tingles playing along her neck and stared determinedly at a bolt in the bulkhead. The Jedi was methodical and considerate with this humiliation, only lifting her tunic enough to see to the bandaging, his fingers gentle. But it made her wish he'd just rip it off.

"Clean. No infection. You'll have faint scarring, but I believe that is the least of your worries," Obi-Wan said quietly, lowering her tunic.

Sabé straightened up as best she could as he balled the old bacta patch for disposal.

"Has she said anything?"

Sabé sucked in a tight breath as Anakin Skywalker stepped into the hold. A deaf person could hear the animosity in his voice. Worse—Sabé felt an icy wave wash over her and pressed her back into the pole.

"Not yet." Something flickered across Obi-Wan's face just before he stood and turned to face his Padawan.

Skywalker was not looking at his Master but glaring past him down at Sabé. The air fairly crackled with him, and she saw him over her, pinning her to the ground, his blood dripping on her as he shouted madly. What did he do? How did he survive?

He radiated heat, yet she felt so cold . . .

"Have you tried anything, Master?" he said meaningfully. "More powerful suggestion?"

"Anakin—" Obi-Wan paused and glanced over his shoulder. "We'll discuss this—again—but not in here."

Skywalker merely shifted past Obi-Wan, his eyes never leaving Sabé. He seemed to be unharmed, unscathed, as if she had never shot him with toxin or ripped a vibroblade through his torso. He should be dead.

"Don't make it personal, Anakin," Obi-Wan cautioned as his Padawan towered over Sabé.

Skywalker, his eyes bearing down on her, allowed a cold, humorless smile to stretch his lips. "Oh no, Master." He folded his arms. "There's nothing personal in you trying to kill me, is there?"

Sabé glared back. He was obviously trying to intimidate her in a much more direct manner than Obi-Wan; yet she found Skywalker's antics to be insolent. If not for the cold crawling down her back, she would have laughed in his face. Skywalker needed to learn strength and power was not everything.

Skywalker grew impatient with her silent glower and passed his hand through the air. "You will answer me."

At this, she did let a smirk skirt up her cheek.

Skywalker looked furious.

"I've tried that already," Obi-Wan said with mock weariness. "The galaxy is full of stubborn people like you."

"Ican make her talk—"

"Not that way, Padawan."

Sabé watched and listened, considering their words. To all appearances, they were arguing about more severe methods of interrogation. But why in front of her? She would not put it past the Jedi to stage this for her benefit. If she did not acquiesce to their interrogation, there was the possibility of more persuasive, unpleasant methods. Of course, she knew Jedi did not resort to torture, but did they know she knew this? Apparently not. Often the very mystery surrounding the Order enhanced a certain wariness in those apprehended by Jedi, enabling interrogation to proceed without ever having to threaten hostility.

But Sabé also knew, if this was staged, there was another current running under it. She had observed Kenobi and Skywalker before. Over the years, Skywalker's impudence had not lessened. He acted before thought. Did not consider the consequences. Sabé had little doubt he did not balked at using questionable methods on her.

"This is not the time," said Obi-Wan sternly, cutting the argument short. "We have other obligations at the moment."

Skywalker muttered something as he disappeared from the hatch. Obi-Wan's gaze followed his agitated Padawan for a moment before settling on Sabé again.

"Perhaps when I return, you will be up for a chat," he said. "I'm sure you will be devising an escape plan. By all means, do so. It will pass the time. But it's generally acknowledged that vacuum is not much better."

Sabé bit back a retort.

"Now, if you will excuse me."

She watched him go. The hatch closed into silence. She tugged at the manacles again, their clinking echoing in the quiet. Gritting her teeth in frustration, she bit back a cry. After a minute of struggle, she gave up and slumped against the pole again.

Calm down. Think.

Sabé inhaled deeply, closing her eyes, drawing on the Force. It felt heavy and sluggish, her connection frail as her body felt. Skywalker glowed hazily in front of her before everything disappeared into shadow. She pushed past that to the present.

I failed.

Did Yoda know? What would he do?

Nothing. He could do nothing for her. She was on her own.


Obi-Wan Kenobi rubbed his forehead wearily as he slid down into the pilot's chair of the Lorian cruiser. His eyes only distantly absorbed the world outside the viewscreen, his thoughts turned inward and aft.

The past couple of weeks had been trying, to say the least. A holiday would be nice, but Obi-Wan knew such leisure was too far beyond the horizon. It was all rather surreal. When alone, he could almost convince himself it wasn't happening, the Republic going to war, but even in his usual calm solitude, he could not ignore the disturbing shiver of the Force. Obi-Wan, for all his interest in the Unifying Force, could not actually read the future, but he had a bad feeling about it.

About as bad as the present . . .

Obi-Wan watched the tall, lanky form of Anakin rounding the perimeter of the ship. Had it only been a few weeks ago they'd stood in that turbolift, Obi-Wan thinking how young his Padawan had looked in a rare moment of complete insecurity? Something had changed in Anakin since the Jedi Council had granted him the mission to Naboo. Something heavy and possibly burning. It had been there, glimpsed, in the arena at Geonosis.

Ansion, Kamino, Geonosis, Wydrillion . . . So much had happened, so little had been said. Obi-Wan wanted to know what had changed in his Padawan. Or maybe he had only progressed. Still yet, the Jedi Knight wondered if Anakin had come to terms with his broadcasted feelings for Senator Amidala. Could that be it? The shift in Anakin had come before Count Dooku, in any case.

Outside the ship, Anakin reached out with his right hand to stroke the cruiser's hull. Obi-Wan felt a grim sort of ache as his Padawan paused before contact and then slowly lowered his artificial limb. After a moment, he used his left arm to commune with the ship, like a herdsman taming a yearling.

Dooku had left his mark.

Obi-Wan shifted uncomfortably, remembering the battle all too clearly. He had the distinct humiliation of knowing the duel burned him more than Anakin, and Obi-Wan had very little to show for it. The days of suspension had been a small but telling strain on his body. The arena battle had exhausted him. Only ten years ago, the Jedi had been in a similar state of breakpoint, but he'd battled more than a Sith apprentice—and he had come away from it. Where was that leap with Dooku? Where was his reserve?

Or had it been, when staring into Dooku's black eyes, had the vision upended him?

The fallen Jedi's red blade had stung, lashing past words through him. Never at the expense of the moment. Be mindful of the living Force.

But Obi-Wan doubted even Qui-Gon Jinn would have been unaffected by what he'd seen.

Still . . .

Obi-Wan ran a hand through his hair. He had no doubt Count Dooku's escape would come back to haunt him, but for now there were more pressing matters.

Anakin passed the bow again and lifted his hand in a small, affirmative wave to Obi-Wan. He'd be in shortly. The ship was fine. Obi-Wan began the preflight sequence, his mind still rolling over the harrowing recent events.

He had hoped this mission to Wydrillion would provide them a chance to discuss the last mission, but Obi-Wan had not even begun a greeting before things, like they always did, went awry. So many questions surrounded this, but being a Jedi meant setting personal matters aside in the face of a mission. And Wydrillion certainly required their full efforts.

"I can't say I'll miss this place," Anakin said, entering the cockpit. He raised an eyebrow at Obi-Wan sitting in the pilot's chair, gave an almost reluctant smirk, and then collapsed into the other crash chair.

"You look tired," Obi-Wan murmured as the ship's engines switched from an airy whine to a low purr.

"I am."

Obi-Wan frowned. If Anakin admitted to any sort of weakness, he had to worry. The younger man leaned up on the console and massaged his face wearily. "Are you having another fever?"

"No." Anakin looked up, red finger marks distorting his pale face. "It's just . . . I'm tired."

"Rest, then." Obi-Wan flashed his Padawan a self-deprecating smile. "I think I can manage."

Anakin nodded but didn't move. He stared out the viewport for a moment and then glanced aft over his shoulder, frowning darkly. "I still think she might be Sith."

Obi-Wan refrained from sighing. "No, I don't think so." He sent his departure confirmation to Wydrillion control and fed more power to the engines. The Lorian lifted smoothly out of its port and he glimpsed other cruisers nestled between the barriers.

Anakin seemed to be waiting for him to continue, but Obi-Wan pretended to be busy with clearing the bays. The younger man fidgeted, his mechanical arm drumming on his knee. Obi-Wan couldn't help but glance at the abnormality. Anakin noticed his glance and ceased.

"Why can't she be?" he finally demanded. "We agree she's Force-sensitive."

"Yes, there is no doubt there."

"And you think she's been trained."

"Yes." Obi-Wan piloted the cruiser out of Wydrillion's innerspace.

"So, she's been trained by someone to kill Jedi."

"Not necessarily," said Obi-Wan. "Anakin, she could be a great many things. Not every Temple initiate becomes a Jedi. Most remain in the Order in some form, like the AgriCorps," he couldn't help but wince inwardly at this, "but some do leave. She could just be skills for hire.

"In any case," he shrugged, "she did not feel Sith." He frowned at Anakin. "You better rest now, Padawan. Unless you would like to explain what happened back there."

"No. No, I think I need to sleep."

"Do more than sleep," Obi-Wan reminded him as Anakin rose. "Meditate. It'll restore you."

Anakin muttered something and disappeared into the living cabin. Obi-Wan shook his head as he settled onto their puzzling situation. He could see Anakin stumbling for the cruiser as his attacker fled into it. The Jedi Knight had seen the trick, had known she was leading his Padawan in—but it had been too late. The hatch had closed and Obi-Wan had been left to scratch at the hull with his lightsaber and argue with the locking mechanism. When the hatch hissed open, he'd found Anakin leaning against the hull, eyes glazed and shaking body dripping with sweat. He'd stumbled back, allowing Obi-Wan entrance, and proceeded to collapse against the far bulkhead.

Blood had been everywhere, yet Anakin's wounds were sealed and clean. Obi-Wan still did not understand it. This went beyond usual self-healing techniques. His Padawan seemed a little delirious between his vague murmurings of being 'fine.' He had been in a fever. Despite the obvious lack of real need, Obi-Wan had placed bacta on the abrasions before turning to the attacker.

Obi-Wan had seen too much casualty for his taste, but he'd still felt a little sick jolt. Upon first sight, he'd thought she was dead. But she was alive, if only just, and bleeding profusely from a deep slash in her side. Yet it was not the grisly sight that disturbed Obi-Wan so much.

She was small. Frail and child-like, a shattered doll. He could tell she was young.

Using the Force, he'd managed to focus on the weak flicker of life Force in her. He'd been surprised to find her in 'emergency meditation.' The chase had revealed her to be Force-sensitive and in control of her abilities, but also limited. To be in this state, she—whoever she was—had been very well-trained.

And there was something else . . . something Obi-Wan could not place, something almost familiar . . . But he had to stopper the wound. Anakin seemed unable to answer his questions, though his eyes were clearing.

Then things got tricky. They were on a mission to officially ally Wydrillion with the Republic. Any signs of weakness or trouble could easily place the trade hub in Separatist hands. The Wydrillion Council would understandably feel less secure if it discovered the Protectors of Peace were threatened in relatively friendly space. No, it was best most of the galaxy remained unaware of the increase in . . . Jedi-hunting.

Nonetheless, Obi-Wan had wanted to seek medical attention for Anakin. Yet by the time he had the attacker stabilized and secured in the hold, Anakin had been looking little worse for wear. While Obi-Wan contacted the Temple, he ordered his Padawan into a healing trance. The Council, of course, had not been pleased by the news; they were also very intrigued by Anakin's condition, of which Obi-Wan could tell them little. Obi-Wan would have liked Yoda's presence, but the tiny Jedi Master had been regrettably absent. Windu and the others had agreed, if Anakin was unharmed, that the mission came first. Then they could focus on this newest anomaly in Anakin's training history.

Obi-Wan knew Anakin was not telling all he knew about what had happened in the hold, but he did believe his apprentice was honest about not quite understanding it himself. Perhaps it was just another explosion of power he was prone to, another example of his incredible potential, another sign he may be The Chosen One.

This could also explain Anakin's reluctance to talk about it.

Still . . . there was something about it . . .

But there had been no time to push, no time to coax it out of Anakin. Wydrillion came first, and its representatives proved ambitious as well as cautious in their treaty with the Republic. Between negotiations and assurances, Obi-Wan saw to their new prisoner and Anakin's health. The fever disappeared after a day, though he looked pale for another two. Obi-Wan had made a little errand to a discreet chemist on Wydr II to analyze the toxin in the dart Anakin caught. The results: troubling.

But not as much as the aftereffects of this assassination attempt. Anakin seemed to take Obi-Wan's administrations on the attacker as an insult. Why save her? Why not let her die? Or turn her over to the authorities? They would do little to aid an assassin's recovery. Obi-Wan understood where Anakin was coming from, even if it was not, exactly, a Jedi mindset. The boy—young man—had a tendency to take things too personally as a result of living nine years on Tatooine before coming to the Temple. By now, Obi-Wan had more or less surrendered to this slight in Anakin's training. Some things were just too engrained in a person to change.

Still, Obi-Wan would not allow it. They would not aid death. They would gain more knowledge from their attacker alive than dead, and this was the reasoning that eased Anakin's sense of injustice the best.

Obi-Wan kept their captive under trance during the negotiations. Her condition went beyond the vibro-wound and he sensed it had something to do with whatever had happened to Anakin. The flesh wound healed a little slowly, owing to her weakness. He kept her unconscious as long as he dared before, earlier, prodding her to emerge out of meditation.

The Wydrillion mission was over.

Now another began.

Once the Lorian was out of Wydrillion space, Obi-Wan left the cockpit. He sensed Anakin's dormant state as he passed the small living cabin. Good.

The Jedi paused just outside the cargo door.

He could sense her just beyond. Again, he had the nagging feeling of familiarity, yet he also knew he could not forget her. The sense of her was tight, so tight he really only sensed her presence as that of a living being. Like she was hiding.

Standing here puzzling it would get him nowhere. Obi-Wan opened the hatch door and entered.

She was awake, as he knew she would be. Those large, dark eyes regarded him coldly, hauntingly familiar though he could not place them. Obi-Wan couldn't help but be struck by her. She was beautiful, to be sure, but Obi-Wan Kenobi had learned long ago that beautiful women tended to be the most dangerous. No, it was something else. Shackled to the support pole, she had every appearance of being broken. Dark shadows around her eyes accentuated her pale, drained complexion. Tangled, almost black hair fell haphazardly out of her braid. Her full lips were colorless in contrast with the black stains on her torn tunic. Clad in ragged gray and as pale as she was, she could have been some ghost of lore.

Except for her eyes. They burned coldly. Stone. She was not a specter but stone.

He remembered, when he'd dressed her wound, how she had seemed so young and fragile. Yet the woman unmoving on the floor had thrown him over a railing and very nearly killed his Padawan. He could see it easily now, yet there were traces of displaced youth, of that doll-like delicacy.

"Are you in want of company enough yet?" he asked finally.

Her silence was expected.

Obi-Wan knew he could break her. He was stronger. The problem, however, rested in her strong shields. Against strong resistance, he risked the possibility of destroying more than a mental barrier. Yes, he could break her, but in doing so, the damage could be irrevocable. He would learn nothing from a mad captive, and wielding such power was treading on precarious ground.

The trick was to get her to cooperate of her own will.

She was not stone, however much she projected it. He'd seen the utter embarrassment flicker across her face when he'd reached for her bandaging. A flush had graced her cheeks then, her stare had fallen away.

A modest killer. Such was the galaxy . . .

"I see you're as talkative as before," Obi-Wan said mildly. "By all means, keep your silence. It will do you no good." He shed his robe and draped it on a net hook in the hold's makeshift berth. For a moment he pondered the cruiser they'd commandeered. Anakin knew his vessels. This particular Lorian was once quietly commissioned for Republic operatives, but this model had been known to be scrapped or resold if not "obtained" by some of the galaxy's less upright citizens. Entering its register in the Republic database only got them to may or may not: this cruiser, at one time, may or may not have been part of the Republic specialist fleet. Even Jedi ships flew under 'may or may not' when not officiated for a specific mission.

Likewise, her attire left little for clues. Obi-Wan was rather impressed by the amount of weaponry he'd found within her clothing. The dart gun he'd found in the hangar and the cartridges themselves were of such a high but standard make that he doubted he could properly trace it. Their only clue was a disquieting one. The small, light belt on around her slender waist had the unmistakable Jedi craftsmanship Obi-Wan had come to appreciate more and more on his misadventures. The comlink he'd found also held traces of Not'ril'ta, one of the Temple's best technicians.

These findings pointed to the hired assassins targeting Padawans.

It did not sit well with Obi-Wan to think of a possible Temple initiate murdering young Jedi for money. He recalled his own struggles with rejection, but he could not imagine ever turning against the Order. Nor could he sense feelings of revenge or hate.

Then what did this all mean?

Obi-Wan wanted to find out.

"You have two options," he said, folding his arms. "The first one: you remain silent and go to prison for attempted murder. Or you answer our questions. Bounty hunting is not illegal in the Republic, yet I cannot imagine a legal bounty being placed on Anakin Skywalker."

A rigid tension lined her elegant jawline.

"So," Obi-Wan continued, studying her carefully with his eyes and the Force, "this leaves me wondering: is this a personal strike, or are you one of the bounty hunters targeting young Jedi?"

Her lips tightened as if he'd offended her.

"I know my Padawan has a tendency to . . . grate the nerves," Obi-Wan said carefully, "but I doubt he could offend enough to deserve such a vendetta."

Only that steady, unblinking stare.

"If you are a bounty hunter, I'll have you know I've wearied of them of late, so it would be best if you cooperate." Some bounty hunters held loyalty codes, making them prized hires; others would instantly drop a hire if it meant escaping a dodgy entanglement or gaining more profitable employment elsewhere. Obi-Wan wondered if this one was fiercely loyal or, perhaps, there was something more.

"Are you in some sort of trouble?" he wondered aloud.

She blinked and her lips parted slightly. Obi-Wan smiled inwardly. Adopting a gentler tone, he followed this line and knelt down.

"Was this an act of desperation? Do you need help? If you help us, maybe we can help you."

She stared at him, unreadable, and then adopted a faintly exasperated look as she turned away.

Damn.

So close, Obi-Wan again felt the nagging prickling. What was the Force telling him? She eluded him. And he couldn't deny, however much he wanted to, that something about her was pulling him . . . Was this what Qui-Gon felt when he latched onto one of his 'life causes'? Or was there something else entirely, something neither of them knew yet but would become a part of? Was it the Unifying Force at work?

He stretched out again with the Force. Taut, rigid. Cool, smooth stone.

She shifted and met his gaze again. He noticed her swallow, noticed how she held her once dislocated shoulder. Perhaps he should have eased the pain instead of letting it swell, but Obi-Wan had not seen the need for such benevolence at the time. The stiff, aching limb was obviously uncomfortable, though she seemed determined to hide it. Obi-Wan wavered between fixing it now and leaving it. When she was more compliant, maybe . . .

"If you will not speak . . ." He stood and picked up his robe as he turned for the hatch door.

"Fresher."

Obi-Wan paused.

She was giving him a desperate, humiliated sort of look.

Obi-Wan hid his smirk well. He bent down to free her, saying, "We are currently in hyperspace and you're outnumbered."

She did not respond, but Obi-Wan wasn't about to be foolish in this. He kept a firm hold on her small wrists as he freed one from the manacles and pulled her arms in front of her. The movement had to hurt her wrenched shoulder, but she only flinched slightly, her jaw set determinedly. Obi-Wan secured the manacles again, marveling at her slender wrists. She really was quite small, yet she had strength, he'd seen it.

But at the moment, she was trembling very slightly. With a grunt, she tried to push up against the pole, but wavered.

Obi-Wan slid his hand up her arm, gripping her by the elbow. She jerked away from him and hit her side against the bulkhead.

"Steady, steady," he said quietly. "You're weak."

Obi-Wan reached for her arm again, but she jerked again and shot him a daggered look. He held up his hands, trying not to let his amusement show. She gave a little huff, bit her bottom lip, and gathered herself. As she eased herself upright, Obi-Wan was suddenly struck.

Now he remembered.

"You," said Obi-Wan. "I remember you."

She froze.

"The spaceport—years ago. You were sick."

She swayed a little. Was that relief or were his eyes playing tricks with him? But he saw her clearly then, delirious and stumbling away. Even then he had thought there was something . . . but then she'd been lost in the crowd and he'd let her slip just as easily from his mind as he'd returned his attention to chiding Anakin. Was there a reason behind the encounter? There's always a reason. What could it be?

She looked ready to collapse.

Obi-Wan firmly but gently grasped her elbow again. She thanked him with a glare but did not pull away. Grudgingly she allowed him to steady her as they started for the refresher. Obi-Wan couldn't help but smirk inwardly at her obstinate refusal to lean on him. He could feel her trembling under his hand, could see the strain of the short walk on her weakened body. Muscle atrophy and whatever the hell Anakin's power burst had done.

Some very powerful Jedi Masters could channel life energy from another being. Those who could rarely did, except for in healing circumstances, and with the healer releasing his or her own life Force into the injured being. Had Anakin inadvertently drawn upon this woman's life Force? It seemed impossible, even though Jedi drew on the Force, which was an embodiment of all things; then again, nothing was impossible when it came to the Force.

Obi-Wan dropped his hand when they reached the refresher. She went in without a backward glance, chin held high as if she were entering a palace rather than a chamber of necessity. The door slid shut and Obi-Wan leaned against the corridor wall to wait.


Obi-Wan needed some serious distraction, and he doubted this makeshift sandwich was up to the task. That was 'sandwich' in the loosest term. Not that he had much of an appetite, anyway. The twenty-three year old Padawan sighed as he lifted the Naboo sandwich, thinking, at the very least, someone could have left him the last sweet biscuit.

His first bite proved the sandwich was not going to suffice. Still, he dutifully swallowed and tried to ponder all the other sandwiches he'd consumed across the galaxy. It was certainly better than thinking of—

Obi-Wan looked up toward the lift door just before it whispered open. He expected, in that brief instance, to see the Queen step out, but it was only one of her orange-hooded handmaidens. Why had he expected the Queen? She had not been seen out of her private chambers since Coruscant, nor did it seem likely she'd come down to the lower common on her own for a sandwich.

Still, he'd felt sure . . .

The handmaiden seemed to hesitate slightly before she stepped out of the lift, her head bowed under her low cowl. Obi-Wan glanced down at his sandwich, feeling more than a little irritated to be interrupted. The Queen wasn't the only one being reclusive on this curious return to Naboo—

The Padawan watched the slight form head for the small food unit. She was not Rabé or Eirtaé, who were only seen when fetching something for the Queen.

Ah, his distraction had arrived.

Obi-Wan, his curiosity piqued, stretched out subtly with the Force, his sandwich only a mechanism of apparent disinterest. He dared not prod far, he just needed a little confirmation. This was not Padmé, the third and not silent handmaiden.

The Queen, masquerading as one of her handmaidens, moved with seemingly calm grace, but Obi-Wan spotted the edge of tension in her slender lines. She was smaller out of her heavy gown, smaller than he'd expected. If he didn't know better, he'd think her just a young girl popping down to the kitchen to nip a late night snack.

Which, he reasoned, she actually was. Sometimes it was easy to forget Queen Amidala was only fourteen.

Amidala seemed determined to show him only her back or profile as she quietly set about making tea. She worked delicately, making as little noise as possible. Then she returned to rummaging through the cupboards, her gloss-painted fingertips finding the sweet biscuit container. She pulled it out and opened it, giving Obi-Wan a glimpse of her shadowed face as she peered in.

"Damn," she swore softly.

Obi-Wan raised his eyebrows. He'd said just as much a few minutes ago, but it sounded better from her. In that brief moment, he saw a rather sweet, young face twist with consternation at being deprived of sweets.

Then she looked at him sharply, accusingly.

Yes, he had no doubt she was the Queen.

Obi-Wan shrugged unhelpfully. He wanted to call her on the disguise, but it seemed somehow impolite. Nor was he in the mood for a royal chat.

She still looked a little suspicious as she turned back to the cupboards. Obi-Wan watched out of the corner of his eye as she settled for soft, thick crackers and jam. He'd never seen a queen prepare her own snack, but she worked efficiently, taking precise care not to spread crumbs or spill the jam. The Jedi Padawan smiled inwardly at her queenly manner for such an ordinary task.

She poured her tea and Obi-Wan again glimpsed the left side of her face as she canted her head a little. Although her eyes were shadowed from her low cowl, he could see her bottom lip tucked in a little with concentration. He had little doubt she was being extra careful in his presence, in disguise or not.

When the Queen finished preparing her snack, she paused, her orange sliver form turned slightly toward him. Indecision? Had she intended to sit alone in the lower common and he'd ruined her singular outing?

Obi-Wan took another bite of his sandwich, debating whether to offer her a seat. As much as he'd come here for distraction, he wasn't sure if he wanted to make a small chat with a Queen-in-disguise. Maybe she would say nothing. Maybe she would. It was bound to be awkward, whichever way it went. Though, he amended, if he was in the mood for underlying banter, he would have relished this.

The 'handmaiden' picked up her tea and cracker plate, gave him a shadowed nod, and headed for the lift. The door whispered shut behind her.

Obi-Wan set his half-eaten sandwich down and frowned, unable to shrug off a curious disappointment.


Inside the tiny refresher, Sabé cupped her hands and drank thirstily as water spilled over them. She knew it wasn't drinking water, but it was clean enough and she didn't care at the moment. Then she splashed the water over her face, scrubbing furiously, pressing her fingers into her eyelids and seeing red spots in the momentary darkness. She drank again and then, finally, turned the water off, letting her face drip into the sink.

She stayed like that for several minutes, breathing slowly, eyes closed, as she tried to find her center. The Force moved unsteadily around her, a frayed, thin shawl around her shoulders. She pulled it in with her breathing. The shadow game must be kept. Whatever happened, she must keep Yoda's order secret.

When she felt marginally steadier, Sabé lifted her head and felt a sick little jolt of horror at her reflection. She looked like death. Gingerly, she touched her hollow cheeks, her eyes large and darkly luminous in their sunken shadows. Her hands were shaking. Sabé bit her lip and gripped the sink. But she continued to stare at the specter in the mirror. A white skeleton lost in a black tangle.

She did not recognize herself.

Sabé scowled. How dull, she thought over the sick, empty feeling threatening to rise from her stomach and tear her eyes.

She stepped back from the mirror and turned to the narrow shower stall. Upon entering, she'd locked the door and checked the tiny cupboard for her hygiene kit. Everything was in place, though she had little doubt the Jedi had searched every inch of the ship. She'd noticed while locked in the hold they'd removed anything loose or helpful for escape. Damn Kenobi for realizing the hold made such a good prison cell. At least he had not jettisoned her soap.

Wincing as her stiff shoulder protested, Sabé removed her clothes and stepped into the shower. She examined the scarring curving along her side, uncomfortably self-conscious of Obi-Wan's medical cleaning of the wound area. She could sense him just outside the door, a faint, hovering presence buzzing in a corner of her mind. Guarding.

Sabé glanced at the locked door. She had no worry of the Jedi intruding. Obi-Wan Kenobi was a gentleman.

Still, as she tentatively traced the long, pink scar, she wished he'd left her to bleed.

Frowning grimly at that notion, she turned on the water and gasped as warm water hit her weakened body. Sabé closed her eyes and leaned against the wall, letting the cleansing warmth wash over her. She let the Force sink in. She needed to get her strength back, needed to reinforce her shields. Needed to prepare for whatever was to come. It might take awhile, but Obi-Wan could wait.

As the hiss of running water soaked her ears and the steam filled her lungs, Sabé slipped into a healing trance, her mind floating . . .

The bounty hunter grinned, feral, flashing her jagged teeth. Sabé paced, fighting the frustration rising in her. Turning back, she leaned over the red-tattooed contract killer, fitting the witch with her best glare.

"Tell me who's contracting for Padawans," Sabé snapped. Before I jettison you, she thought.

The bounty hunter laughed, her forked tongue flashing between her teeth, her black eyes glittering with amusement. Sabé pushed her fist under the bony chin, bringing her face within an inch of the snakelike female's.

"You will tell me. Or I'll hand you over to the Jedi."

The hunter's tongue lashed out, licking Sabé's face. Sabé whipped her head away in disgust, but did not relent. She slipped her small blaster out of its holster, holding it loosely at her side.

The red female grinned coldly. "You capture me and say you speak on behalf of the Jedi," she hissed, "but you threaten death."

Sabé shrugged. "I am not a Jedi." She twitched her blaster hand subtly.

The Slissian's glittering eyes flickered again. She snarled fiercely up at Sabé. "If I tell you all I know, it is amnesty, then?"

"Depends on what you tell me."

The bounty hunter growled, tugged against her shackling, and then hissed a sigh. "Fine."

Sabé waited. Her heart pounded. Would she finally discover the needed information, or would she come to another dead end? Did this Slissian not possess the fear of the contractor as the other bounty hunters did, or would she only find a ghost representative like before?

"A blanket contract is out for any Jedi apprentices," the Slissian slithered out. Sabé noted the inward twitch of the tiny, narrow, sloping shoulder bones under the red tattoos. "Nice price. Better than some of the senators' heads."

"Get to the point," Sabé ground out.

The Slissian shrugged, her shoulders folding in more as her black eyes never left Sabé. "I didn't believe the contract at first. The Trade Federation is too deep in war to pay up, but word got round that the contractor makes good on the bounty."

"Who is it?" Sabé noted the folding of the shoulders had ceased, but she sensed the tension like a spring.

The bounty hunter smiled coldly. "I could not really say—"

She coiled, springing inward as her shoulders folded and rotating, her sinewy legs kicking out at Sabé. But Sabé was not off-guard and easily jumped over the kick, her right leg connecting with the Slissian's face. The bounty hunter howled angrily as Sabé landed and leveled her blaster. But she was not done as she folded further, whipping her snakelike body around, twisting lighting fast. Sabé's vibro-dagger was out in an instant and under the pointed chin, pricking.

"That's enough of that," Sabé growled.

The Slissian spat. "Look at you. You're no more than a girl. Playing a game. I can snap you like a twig."

Sabé pressed a little more. The Slissian hissed. "You say this, yet you are the one chained to a post."

"Not for long."

"Try it and you're dead."

The Slissian female smiled cruelly. "Have you ever killed anyone, little girl?"

Sabé gritted her teeth.

"It is delightfully easy," the bounty hunter whispered. "It's just an instant. No matter how you do it. The foreplay can be long and drawn out, or you can just blast them. It does not matter. The actual killing, the final stroke—just an instant."

Sabé could smell the Slissian's black blood sizzle on her blade, it's acrid, metallic scent burning her nose. "Tell me who the contractor is."

"You'll be just as easy as the little Jedi."

The Slissian let out an earsplitting cry and turned her body into a whip. Sabé barely had time to fold her body into a roll as the flexible Slissian broke free, her arms slithering out of her shackles. She sprang up, turning, as the bounty hunter uncoiled to leap. Three shots rang directly into the Slissian's heart. The glitter flickered out of her black eyes and she fell in mid-leap, collapsing to the floor.

Sabé slowly lowered her blaster and stared.

She stood dumbly for a long moment.

The bounty hunter was right. It was just an instant.

Sabé turned the body over. A burned circle smoldered over the cooked heart. Her shaking hand reached for the thin braids pinned to the belt. An instant. Seven instances clutched in her fist. Seven.

Sabé stood and backed away. Then she turned and vomited violently.

Lost in the shower, her tears fell unabated.


Obi-Wan Kenobi's patience was starting to lean toward irritated when the refresher door opened. He'd heard the shower cease awhile ago and had wondered if his prisoner had been standing in there to be ornery.

The Jedi Knight straightened and couldn't help but raise his eyebrows as she stepped out of the fresher. She stared up at him, daring him defiantly as she held herself straight. Some color had made it to her full lips, though she still remained rather pale and drawn. Her long, dark hair had been gathered back into a simple, clean braid she draped over her left shoulder, again piquing Obi-Wan's curiosity. Most active beings such as her kept their hair short for efficiency.

She still wore her torn, bloodstained gray tunic, but it barely dampened the effect. The beauty Obi-Wan had seen under all the blood and exhausted was apparent now. She cleaned up well.

And was apparently recovering her strength. He'd sensed her touching the Force and again had found it to not move darkly around her. This was no Sith, though she had a commendable glare for one.

"Allow me to escort you to your suite," said Obi-Wan.

Her expression was nothing less than withering. The Jedi was again struck by haunting familiarity as a cool mask slipped over her annoyance. She passed him, walking ahead, her movements sure and graceful. The recovery trance. Well-trained, this one.

She stood expressionlessly as he pulled her arms around the post and secured the manacles. Her head only came to his shoulder, but she carried it as if a crown belonged there. Obi-Wan glanced at her profile as he double-checked the shackles, thinking, really, she did not look so young. Younger than his thirty-three years but older than Anakin's twenty. When he stepped back, a faint curiosity played at her brow.

"You must be hungry," he said.

She did not answer but he recognized the starved want in her brown eyes.

He stepped out and returned a short while later with a water flask and sustenance bar. A hungry grimness settled along the corners of her mouth as he set the items down and went to the manacles again.

"The cuisine is lamentable, but so is your situation." He paused, watching her face. "No antics, yes?"

She turned her face to him, and again, Obi-Wan felt he should know her. Why did he expect to see something sweet in those eyes?

She acquiesced with a curt nod. Obi-Wan mentally shook his head at himself and brought her arms around to the front and slipped the left cuff over her wrist again. Her lips were parted slightly and her eyes lowered away from him. The Jedi found it oddly disarming.

Obi-Wan gestured to the flask and bar. "Please."

She grasped the "meal" and settled down on the floor, her back against the bulkhead across from her usual post. Obi-Wan leaned against the bulkhead and crossed his arms casually to wait, watching as she adapted to limited use of her hands as she unwrapped the food bar. She looked up pointedly.

"Oh, don't mind me."

Looking a touch irritated, she proceeded to ignore him as she took her first bite. She was a courtly eater, almost dainty. Obi-Wan knew this mannerism well; he'd seen it throughout the galaxy in the higher classes. It suited her, unlike the bounty hunter profile. The Jedi scratched absently at his beard, pondering.