by Karen Miller
She scoffed at that, but then fell silent. After a while she sighed again. “Obi-Wan… if it’s too late for me, that’s not your fault. I do understand. Rules are rules.”
It almost broke him, that she’d try to ease his guilt when he’d condemned her to this barren exile.
“Yes, Greti. They are.”
But we disregarded them for Anakin. Why can’t I do the same for her, when she’s a natural-born healer and we’re in desperate need of her skills?
“Obi-Wan,” she said. “Maybe I could—”
But then the droids started firing again, blaster bolts booming, and her thought was lost in a wave of barely suppressed fear.
Obi-Wan took her hand. “It’s all right, Greti. Anakin won’t let the shield fail. And help will come. Believe me. It will come.”
She was so frightened. He could hear the whimper, trapped in her throat. But like a Jedi, she refused to give in to her fear. “I believe you, Obi-Wan.”
Stang. What a waste. “Good girl,” he said. “Now close your eyes and meditate, just like I showed you.”
Trusting him, she closed her eyes. When he was satisfied that he could leave her for a little while, Obi-Wan let himself sink into the Force.
Show me what’s out there. Show me what’s to come.
But the future remained elusive. All he had left was his faith—and his faith was starting to wear horribly thin.
DRY-MOUTHED WITH TENSION, Ahsoka stood on Indomitable’s bridge and watched Gold and Arrow squadrons engage the enemy. The pilots’ fierce joy resounded through the Force, waking echoes of joy in her. More than anything she wanted to be out there with them, only she wasn’t a good enough combat pilot. Not yet. But Master Windu had promised her she’d see plenty of action once the blockade was broken and they could hit Lanteeb soil, and that eased her disappointment.
If the blockade is broken, that is. If we get to touch dirt.
Master Windu and Admiral Yularen were in the Battle Operations Room, coordinating the attack via holotracking. So far Grievous still hadn’t found a way to jam them again, which meant there were full communications between Indomitable and the pilots. She’d have been welcome to observe with them, but she wanted to watch this fight live, in realspace, just as she’d watched the previous two skirmishes. Master Windu didn’t mind. He’d quizzed her on both engagements afterward, testing her grasp of tactics and strategy, looking for weaknesses in her assessments that might cause trouble later.
She’d impressed him. She wasn’t supposed to notice or care, but she did. Impressing Mace Windu meant something. It was almost as rewarding as impressing Anakin.
So far there’d been no all-out, no-holds-barred clash with Grievous’s battle group—just a couple of short, sharp jabs in his flank to keep him occupied, to stop him from thinking about why the enemy was simply… hanging around. It was all part of the plan. Thinking about that, Ahsoka felt her pulse race. Taria. It was crazy. Crazy. The crazy woman was going to get herself killed.
The void beyond the bridge’s viewport filled and flashed with fire as an Arrow Squadron pilot knocked down two vulture droids with a single shot. One of the crew, watching, let out a restrained but heartfelt “Yes!”
Grinning, Ahsoka kept most of her attention on the fighters from Gold Squadron. Anakin’s boys. Her boys. She and Anakin shared them. And then more vulture droids spewed out of one of Grievous’s battleships, hornets from a malevolent nest. A moment later she heard a buzz from the communications console behind her.
“Okay, here she comes,” Lieutenant Avrey announced, and toggled a switch on her board. “Master Windu? Admiral? We have a green light.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” said Master Windu calmly over the comm, as though the lieutenant had just made a passing note of the time. “Alert Pioneer and Coruscant Sky.”
And that explained why there were more vulture droids on the offensive. They’d spotted Taria in the captured Techno Union ship, closing in. She must have alerted the Seps, let them know she was coming in hot. And they must believe she was one of theirs—which meant Master Yoda’s audacious plan was working. Ahsoka wished she could reach out through the Force, touch her new friend’s mind and let her know she wasn’t alone. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. There might be a Force-sensitive on one of Grievous’s ships. It was too dangerous to take the chance.
A stirring in her mind, a rush of recognition, and then she saw the sleek, swift Sep ship with Taria at the controls flashing past Indomitable’s port flank. Master Windu had chosen Fireball to lead the fake attack against their fake enemy. Ahsoka held her breath, watching Taria’s desperate attempt to avoid interception. Stang, she was a great pilot. She was really making this look good. So was Fib. More Gold Squadron ships poured after him. They were all making this look so good, no way would Grievous ever suspect it was a lie. Vulture droids swarmed to protect the Sep ship. Half of Arrow Squadron broke off to engage them. And then—yes yes yes—there were the Hammers, zipping out of Pioneer, and it was a full-on four-way engagement, the void above Lanteeb bursting into furious action.
Fingers clenched to fists, every sense extended, Ahsoka did her best to follow each individual engagement at once and keep track of Taria, being chased by Fib and three other Gold ships. She nearly cried out when one of Fib’s boys—who was it? Could she sense it? Sandcat? Was that him?—caught a clip from a vulture and spun madly out of control. But he was all right, he was safe and limping for home.
And then someone else wasn’t so lucky. A Gold boy was blown clear out of the sky. Groans sounded around the bridge as grief tightened her throat.
That was Bammer. He liked nerf stew and opera. Stang. I just felt Bammer die.
Fireball had to be hurting, but his course stayed true. He and his wingman hunted after Taria, leaving the rest of Gold Squadron and the boys from Hammer and Arrow to keep the surviving vulture droids busy.
They’re making it look so real. If I didn’t know better I’d think they were trying to kill her.
Grievous was still fooled. He sent out more vultures to help her. And then, just like Master Yoda planned it, with perfect precision Fireball clipped Taria’s starboard fin. As the Sep ship went into an impressive, swirling roll Taria blew the fake charge they’d rigged in the left-hand engine pod. The vulture droids let her pass through, streaming smoke, and then closed ranks to charge Fireball and Can, his wingman, their plasma cannons blazing.
Break now, Fib! Break now!
Ahsoka wanted to scream the words out loud. She wanted to pound her fists on the transparisteel viewport, then race belowdecks to the hangar and grab a fighter and join him. She hated this watching. Watching was for droids.
But Fireball didn’t need her help. Next to Anakin he was Gold Squadron’s best pilot. He and Can tore up the sky, shattering droid after droid into slivers of hot metal.
Taria was nothing but a fast-dwindling light in the distance now, safely on her way to a staged crash landing on Lanteeb. Ahsoka laughed, giddy with relief, but that didn’t last long. There was still a real firefight to win. Not only would Grievous suspect trouble if the Republic ships suddenly withdrew—the rest of his vulture ships needed turning into slag.
Closing her eyes, she sent a message winging after Taria.
May the Force be with you, Master Damsin. Don’t do anything stupid. Bring yourself back alive. And please bring Anakin and Master Kenobi back with you.
AS CRASH LANDINGS WENT, she’d lived through worse.
“Still,” Taria remarked, just to hear the sound of her own voice, “I’m pretty sure I can die happy without living through any more.”
The Techno Union ship’s buckled cockpit was rapidly filling with smoke, sparks and little flames dancing over the main console and above her head. She coughed, the taste of burned circuits and melting plastoid acrid on her tongue.
Time to go.
The body Senator Organa had supplied for this ruse was strapped into the copilot’s seat. It was a Special Ops and that was
all she knew. Working fast, closing her mind to the implications, Taria unstrapped the dead woman and shifted her across to the pilot’s seat. Briefly, she rested a hand on the dark, lolling head.
Thank you. I don’t know how you really died, but your sacrifice is appreciated and won’t be forgotten. At least not by me.
This close to Lantibba City and Durd’s Separatist troops, it wasn’t safe to use the Force. All it would take was one dark side sensitive and the plan would be blown. And even though she was about to destroy the ship she wasn’t prepared to use her lightsaber, either. The mark of its blade was simply too distinctive. That meant using brute strength to open the damaged hatch—and she had quite a lot less of that, these days.
Spurred on by the growing cockpit fire, she kicked and shoved and bashed her way to relative safety.
“Stang!”
Folded onto her hands and knees, bruised, and bleeding from scrapes on her left cheek and the back of her right hand, she took a few precious seconds to catch her breath. There was dirt and grass beneath her, empty sky overhead. In the distance she could just make out the first, faint wailings of an emergency response vehicle.
“Right,” she muttered. “Now it’s really time to go.”
Staggering to her feet, she tightened the strap of the satchel slung over her chest and looked around. There—northeast—there was the city, right where her personal nav beacon said it would be. The spaceport’s lights gleamed and glittered in the darkness, almost pretty. By her best guess it was some fifteen klicks away—a nice, brisk jog. Breathing deeply again, clearing her disease-damaged lungs of smoke, she patted her lightsaber once, a little ritual of reassurance, then unzipped the security pocket on the thigh of her bodysuit and pulled out a remote detonator.
The wailing siren was much closer now.
Swiftly backing away from the crashed ship, Taria thumbed the remote. A warning tremor rippled through the Force as its signal triggered the untraceable explosive charges designed to complete the crash landing’s artistic effect.
Light and sound erupted together as the two mini bombs exploded. She felt heat caress her stinging face, felt the released energy snap through her flesh and bones. The ground shuddered. The air roared. The Techno Union ship leapt, then broke apart.
She nodded approvingly, and put the remote back in its pocket. “Nice work, Senator. Very nice indeed.”
Flirting with danger, she waited a moment longer and watched the flashing lights of the approaching emergency responder. Only one vehicle?
Now that’s just lazy.
But it made her life easier, so she wasn’t about to complain. Just before the crash team arrived on the scene she retreated farther into the night’s shadows, melted into the Force and used its light to show her the fastest, safest way to the city. The temptation to touch Obi-Wan’s mind was a torment, but she resisted. Without knowing exactly where he was, or what kind of trouble he’d landed himself in, she could easily do more harm than good.
“But don’t worry, eskaba,” she promised him, lightly running. “I’m here now—all you have to do is hold on.”
Chapter Nineteen
“I’M SO SORRY, MISTRESS PADMÉ, BUT THE DIRECTOR OF BAGRILA Industries is unable to take your comm.”
Sighing, Padmé pinched the bridge of her nose. Another one. And now I’m running out of names and favors. “All right, Threepio. Who’s next on the list?”
“The Yylti Corporation, Mistress,” said See-Threepio. “But it’s half a standard hour before they can be contacted.”
“Fine. While I’m waiting, you can bring me another caf.”
“Oh,” said the droid. “Mistress Padmé, are you sure that’s wise?”
Right now there was more caf than blood running through her veins. She should change her mind, but—“Just bring it, Threepio.”
As the droid withdrew, she turned back to the living room’s picture window to watch the rain falling in sheets upon the city. Lacy tatters of light gray cloud drifted between the buildings. This high above street level it was easy to believe there was no street level, that she floated in a luxurious balloon free of all ties to common ground—or reality.
I wonder if it’s raining on Lanteeb.
Fear for Anakin stabbed through her. The latest comm from Yoda wasn’t encouraging. Unbroken the blockade remains, Senator. Even as she called in every favor owed to her, she’d begged Palpatine to relent and authorize more GAR ships to help Admiral Yularen and Master Windu.
But Palpatine remained obdurate. The situation was delicate, he claimed. There were wheels within wheels, precariously spinning. For the first time in her life she was angry with him. Disappointed. For the first time in their long friendship she thought he’d let her down.
We owe Anakin and Obi-Wan our homeworld. What does it say about us if we refuse to repay that debt?
Though they still had no antidote to the bioweapon, Queen Jamillia had courageously promised two squadrons of pilots. It was the best she could do, given that Naboo wasn’t a militarized society. But Palpatine was Supreme Chancellor, the ultimate commander of the GAR.
He can’t be putting politics above our friends’ lives. He just can’t.
But what else was she supposed to think?
“Here,” said Bail, walking up behind her. To save time and minimize complications they were both working out of her apartment. “Your caf—which by rights I should tip down the sink. How many mugs does this make since lunch? Four?”
“Five,” Padmé admitted with a rueful smile, and faced him. “But who’s counting?”
He handed her the steaming mug. “Your protocol droid. It’s in the kitchen ready to blow a circuit relay fretting over you.”
“I’m fine.”
Bail gave her a sharp look. “No, you’re not.” No, I’m not. But there was no use dwelling on it. “So, where are we up to?”
Because he knew her so well, he didn’t bother arguing. “I’m waiting on two return comms,” he said, retreating to the arm of the nearest chair. “But I’m not hopeful about either.”
“What about Brentaal?”
“Brentaal’s promised us three heavy-armored Dreadnaughts—if we can guarantee them protection against the bioweapon.” Bail scowled. “Brentaal, Anaxes, the Ch’zimi-kho Conglomerate—everyone’s singing the same song, Padmé. Of course we’ll help—once there’s an antidote.”
“We can’t really blame them, Bail,” she said, and took a sip of caf to hide her distress. “After Chandrila, everyone’s terrified of a reprisal attack.”
“Which of course was the point.” Bail perched on the arm of the nearest chair. “I just spoke to Tryn.”
“How’s he holding up?”
He shook his head. “He’s not. He says he’s at a total dead end. I’ve never seen him so upset, Padmé. I wish—”
“You had no choice,” she said gently. “He’s one of the best in his field and the only man you could trust. You had to get him involved.”
“I know,” he said, and ran a hand down his tired face. “But this is hurting him. Badly.”
He was so despondent. It wasn’t like him. “You can’t think about that, Bail. We have to focus on coordinating the civilian fleet.”
“Well, that sounds fine in theory,” he retorted, glaring, “except that without an antidote there won’t be one! Thirty Naboo starfighters is an escort, not a fleet!”
“I know,” she said, after a moment. “I’m sorry. Please, let’s not fight. I’ve still got people to comm. Have you?”
Sliding off the chair, Bail nodded. “Don’t worry. I’m not giving up.”
“Of course you’re not. And neither am I. Bail, we’re going to make this happen.”
He wanted to believe her. Stang, I want to believe me. But after nine straight hours of prevarications and outright refusals, belief was in ever-diminishing supply.
“Go on,” she said. “Get back to your list, and let me get back to mine.”
Alone again, she turned to st
are at the rain.
I’m doing my best, Anakin. Don’t give up hope yet.
* * *
BANT’ENA STOOD BEHIND her lab bench, trying not to feel the burning pain in her face where Durd had struck her three times because he didn’t like what she’d said. There was blood in her mouth, warm and metallic. He’d loosened some teeth, too. It didn’t matter. All she cared about now was getting in his way. Tripping him up and making him fail.
Diverted from beating her further by Colonel Barev, the Neimoidian was lurching around the lab in a rage, comlink clutched in one fat, sweating hand.
“What do you mean crash-landed? What do you mean there’s nothing left but a charred body? You told me this agent had urgent information for me and was safely past the GAR battle group! And now you’re saying the agent’s dead and I can’t have the message? Barev—”
Whatever the colonel was saying, it did nothing to soothe Durd’s escalating fury. He was being denied what he wanted, the one thing he could not tolerate.
“Barev, shut up!” he shouted. “I’m not interested in your excuses! Tell me about the Jedi! Is that village siege broken yet? Are they on their way here to me?”
More buzzing from Barev provoked an incoherent shriek from Durd.
“I don’t care anymore, you stupid human! This madness has gone on long enough. Empty every last ammunition store on the planet and send it to that village along with every droid you have left, even the SBDs. I want those Jedi in my compound within a day! Do you hear me, Barev? Do what I tell you or I’ll tear you limb from limb!”
Bant’ena wanted to weep. Anakin and Master Kenobi were still safe and Grievous hadn’t defeated the Jedi fleet.
All I have to do is play for more time—and ruin Durd’s precious bioweapon, just in case the Jedi fail.
Durd threw his comlink down on another bench and turned back to her, menacing. “Well?”
It wasn’t hard to look scared. She was scared, even though he no longer had the power to truly hurt her. She stopped fighting the tears, because they pleased him, and let her hands tremble as she picked up her datapad.