A New Destiny

Foreword

Six years after the fall of the Republic, the galaxy is under the strangled hold of the Empire. The Jedi Knights are extinct, and their memory has been vanquished from minds by fear and force. A small, underground movement has commenced, its goal to overthrow the Empire and bring freedom to the galaxy.

Under a pirate attack where Imperial patrols intervened, Sabé Mabriee Kenobi and former Queen Amidala of the Naboo were separated. Fleeing to Tatooine, Mabriee Kenobi lived a year with assumed dead Obi-Wan Kenobi. Amidala did not return to Tatooine, becoming a member of the Rebellion.

Wounded in battle, Amidala was captured by Imperial forces, imprisoned with her injuries treated under orders of Lord Darth Vader. Mabriee has set out to find the former Queen, leaving her husband behind . . .

“The Welcoming”

The blinding white of the Imperial Medical frigate “Dark Shield” was deathly silent, save for the quiet tones of the observation machinery, and the black, hissing menace stalking the row. White stormtroopers stood guard at their posts, ram-rod straight, their black eyes vacant of feeling while tracing Lord Darth Vader’s heavy steps. The black clad Sith had tormented the medical bays for months now, having trounced upon the healing vessel with his malicious order.

The injured and healing turned white as he passed, praying silently to any gods that this black terror would pass them by without a glance. Everyday, they watched as this ugly creature they revered entered the long medical wing, his contingent in-step behind his billowing cape. He would pass through, as if only to weaken them, spread more pain. Vader would pass them all, retreating to a private chamber, his guards taking post at the closed entrance, droids and doctors excusing themselves immediately.

No one knew his purpose, no one tried to imagine what poor soul was daily punished behind the white door.

Darth Vader entered the small chamber alone, sensing the air compress and hiss as the door slid shut, his own controlled breathing echoing in the deathly quiet. He noted with humorless irony he was simply another machine accompanying and observing the unconscious figure resting under the white sheets. Unlike the machines, though, he could not administer any good. He was a machine of destruction, thriving on the hot coils of the Force.

Following the continuous routine that was almost protocol, he lowered himself to the stiff chair beside the medical bed, satisfied no wires ran from the woman’s frail body to any machines. Almost absently, he was aware of the risk he was taking harboring the rebel. Lord Sidious suspected nothing, and Vader found no need to mention the issue. Discovering would be a small setback, and his case was not lost.

And the Emperor need not know how the rebel survived. Vader didn’t want to analyze his actions at all. The Force had been strong, and he had obeyed its command, not ordering it. The rush of emotions, memories, and instincts had returned, sending him into weeks of confusion and misdirection. Long meditations between medical observations had set him at ease. The Dark Side had allowed it, and what was done was done.

Dwelling in such circular thoughts was hazardous, and Vader never delved deeply inside himself. It only caused for more insecurity, and he was not insecure. He knew his place in the galaxy, and that was at the side of the Emperor. Vader was grateful there was no need to doubt the status and importance of his being.

Yet . . .

There she slept, the forced unconscious coma now slowly extracting its hold of darkness. The Force had kept her alive, and the doctors had healed the internal damage to the nerves, muscles, and heart. Pale and frail under months of no movement, she was still beautiful, still young and brave. His Padmé was a Rebel, as she had always been.

A curious warmth filled his beaten, artificial body. It was something he had not felt in . . .

It had been a long time. That was the end of it. There was no room for such emotions in his life.

It was time to end the visit, Vader decided. He stood, activating the door and entering the white corridor. “Inform me the moment the patient is alert. Before,” he said to the doctor on duty.

“Yes, Lord Vader.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The sharp aroma of heated spice and fuel hit Sabé Mabriee Kenobi’s nose as she stepped off the ancient freighter onto the technological world of Zaneeta. She clutched her small satchel of possessions protectively, her entire body alert to the smallest hint of trouble, the Force surging around her. Calcutta was the capital city of the Zanc system, located on Zaneeta’s equator. The hot, muggy atmosphere only added to the miserable setting. She felt her credit pouch rub against her thigh, hidden beneath her gray, cinched cloak. Gamblers, traders, Imperials, and pirates mingled together, thumbing blasters and casting suspicious eyes over anyone not recognized, and scowling at anyone they knew.

Her sharp eyes scanned the directories written in Basic, Huttese, and several other languages. She ran her tongue along the top of her mouth, searching for the transportation services. Her stomach fluttered nervously, knowing if Obi-Wan’s contact had been captured or killed, she was out of luck. It had been years since Obi-Wan had last known the whereabouts of an old pilot that had befriended the Jedi years and years ago. Frazz, as the Rweekan had been called, had flown Jedi across the galaxy, but had retired a year before the Purge had begun. Any connection to the Jedi had been erased, as all volunteers were, only being remembered in the lives they’d touched.

His last known residence had been on Zaneeta.

Reciting the code number, Sabé followed the flow of travelers, instinctively keeping her distance from the various stormtrooper patrols. She brought the Force tightly around her without extinguishing it. The moving walkways swept her away from the grunge of the spaceport, and she could breathe more suitable air. Although bodies were crushed together, Sabé couldn’t feel more alone. Sadly, she thought back to her stay on Tatooine. The circumstances of her stay had been dire, and she no longer could ignore the fact that Amidala had disappeared, even when in Obi-Wan’s arms. She desperately wanted to stay with her husband, but she could not when Amidala was somewhere out there, needing her handmaiden’s protection.

Obi-Wan had tried to reason. It was a large galaxy, and a missing persons search would only put everyone involved in danger from the Empire. Sabé had fought that she would have to search herself then. The Jedi Knight understood her calling, but he had not been pleased. He’d resulted to begging, but Sabé had stubbornly left. Their good-bye had been painful, and she had almost turned back, if not for the Force pulsing through her love for Obi-Wan that estranged her from the two people she loved most in the universe.

Holding back a depressed sigh, Sabé shouldered her way through the crowd, breaking free at the Calcutta Inner-World Trans-Line. It was jammed as well, and she felt her stomach tighten at the sight of Imperial Customs Officers flocking the exits. She had no weapons, and there was nothing about her that would alert them. The Force-tracers were no longer used, now that the Jedi were dead. If she was calm, they would think nothing of her.

She waited her turn, silently reciting the data Obi-Wan had given her on Tatooine. Hopefully, Frazz hadn’t moved to new quarters.

“ID,” the customs officer barked as the line moved.

“Yes, sir,” Sabé said in an intimidated tone. She presented the ID disk, letting her eyes wander while it was scanned. If she stared at the disc, the Imperials may become suspicious. It was a false ID, of course, but state-of-the art and flawless under a regular scanner.

“Proceed,” he said, allowing her through.

Sabé didn’t sigh, didn’t smile, just nodded and hurried through, finding yet another ticket line. Her final destination was the city of Caracs. It was a smaller city to the north, and almost ignored by the Imperial patrols surrounding the more disreputable equator sectors. Most likely, she’d have to make several stops instead of a direct route.

“What is your intended destination and cargo?” the silver protocol droid asked Sabé.

“A map and chart of the northern routes, please,” Sabé said. The droid pushed a temp disc across the counter, and she inserted it into the available datapad. Quickly, she assessed the data and her planned route, calculating the cost and the time. Then she turned back to the droid and received her ticket.

Tomorrow she would know whether she had a friend or was alone in the galaxy.

- - - - - - - -

A cold, gray cloud had settled over her body. It was like being trapped underwater and looking up towards the sunlight, but her limbs were leaden with the pressure of the water. Muddy, gray water. Like the polluted gutters of Coruscant. The warmth had left the mud, and it was only this cold reality and harsh light.

Then the sounds . . .

There hadn’t been sound before, and now she could hear the sound of an empty room. There was a soft click of an atmospheric computer adjusting the cold, recycled air.

Her throat felt scratchy, and she realized she could *feel* her mouth with her tongue, could feel the cold, hear the hissing of the ventilation system. It was such an extraordinary occurrence, that she was motivated to test this new ground. With caution born purely from hibernation, she concentrated on her eyelids, finding the simple action of opening them difficult. Determined to win this battle, she pushed the heavy weights open.

A blinding light assaulted her, and she shut them with a whimper, her hands automatically flying to her face, the reflex sending sparks of pain through her cold limbs. Breathing deeply and forcing the pain away, she slowly removed her hands, squinting in the light. Gradually, her eyes adjusted, and she turned her head on the hard pillow, frowning in confusion at her surroundings.

Wasn’t she suppose to have died? Executed for her traitorous acts against the Empire? Padmé remembered the day well. The Imperial attack on the rebellion’s newly advised base, being ordered to evacuate by her commander, then the small frigate being boarded by Imperials. She’d been shot in the chest, alone in the corridor of dead bodies, bleeding and feeling her life slip away.

Then out of the arid smoke he’d appeared, as if to finalize her death. The pain had been to great, her body had shattered and she’d collapsed at the black feet, as if bowing to the dark evil. She remembered the dark red blood staining the leather, the red a brilliant banner in her darkening world. How wonderful to die at her love’s feet, she’d thought. Padmé had expected Darth Vader to order her death to his stormtroopers. Her ears had been pounding when the deep voice had ordered them away. Then she’d collapsed to the floor, her lungs screaming in pain and for air. Blood covered her right breast, running down her arm and torso, onto that black creature. He’d knelt down, as gentle as when she’d met him. He’d cradled her as she coughed blood all over his frightening mask. She had stared at him, unable to cry, and comforted that at least she was with Ani, if only to lose him again.

Then she had died.

Padmé frowned now. How could she be here? Where was here? Before she could dwell on these questions, the door hissed open and two white-cloaked doctors entered. The Imperial insignia marked their right chests, and two stormtroopers flanked them. Padmé stiffened. Why couldn’t she have died? Was she going to be tortured in an Imperial prison?

“Welcome back,” the human male said with a thin smile. Padmé was given the impression he rarely smiled, and his muscles seemed to tremble with the effort. She gazed at him silently. “You will receive your ration now, once we check your vital signs.”

The other, a younger human male came forward then, carrying the small instruments. He looked to be in his late twenties, his black hair cut military style, and his manner was of stiff profession like his mentor. Without preamble, he was checking her blood pressure, blood level, heart rate, and vital signs. Then they conversed in muted words and left her alone.

Moments later, the door hissed and a protocol droid entered, carrying a tray of military food. Padmé stared, her mind slowly working through the situation. The droid set the block of grayish material beside the bed, then adjusted her bed, her upper-body rising until she was sitting up enough to eat. Then the food was presented to her, along with a clear liquid. The droid left, its even steps clicking softly on the hard, black floor.

Padmé studied the food, not willing to trust anything Imperial. She must be in a prison, but what kind? How did she survive? Was she being healed for only malicious purposes? Had Anakin truly been this evil? Her body trembled, weakened and frightened. She looked down at herself, expecting to see a gaping, ghastly wound in her chest. The flimsy white gown revealed nothing. Tentatively, her heart racing, she pulled the gown down over her shoulder. The only trace of her mortal wound was a soft scar curving around her breast and up to her collar bone. It was practically invisible, and it only increased her perplexity.

She slid the gown back up her shoulder, feeling numb. She wasn’t hungry, and already she could feel her body begging for sleep. Slipping into that muddy void was better than facing the Imperials.

- - - - - - - - - -

Vader knew the moment she awaken, for the Force stirred inside of him, distracting him from the Emperor’s words. It was an reprehensible fault to be lead astray in his Master’s presence, and Vader quickly centered his mind on Lord Sidious, hiding his impatience to end the communication.

The Emperor paused, his eyes glittering shrewdly behind his black cowl. Across the galaxy, he could still pin-point his apprentice’s moments of failure, and this one was obvious. The Sith Lord needn’t tear down Vader’s mind shields to know he was already thinking past the conversation. It would be easy to reprimand Vader, but a nonverbal scold was more effective.

After a long moment of silence, Palpatine continued. “Due to our quick dispose of the Jedi, and the fear bestowed onto those who dare whisper the cursed beings, the Force is forgotten. The military’s power is now the ultimate Force . . .”

Vader understood Sidious. While Palpatine spoke of the strategy, he was covering his fear. If anyone powerful enough to use the Force learned their abilities, the Jedi would rise and the Sith would be destroyed. But there was no one with such power. Only he and the Emperor, and Vader was no traitor.

“Continue your inspection, Lord Vader,” Palpatine said. Vader bowed his head and the communication ended.

Alone in the private communications chamber, Vader let out a relieved breath. It hissed through his mask, causing the walls to shudder in response. He stood from his knees, shaking the uneasy feeling within him. Palpatine knew he was wandering, and his silence was all the more unnerving. It irked him to no end to know Sidious knew of things he did not. His Master was closed off, only offering little tid-bits while he demanded everything from Vader. The Sith Lord did not resent his Master, but was indebted and grateful to him.

Like the fog of darkness he was, Vader stalked down the corridors of the vessel, knowing his personal guards would follow him without beckon. He would have to dismiss them permanently. The infirmary was immaculate, everything pristine and polished.

“Ah! Lord Vader!” Dr. Mortiff called, his voice rising nervously. “I was just contacting you.”

“I said before the patient awakened,” Vader snapped, striding right past the shorter man and heading straight towards the private chamber.

“Yes, Lord Vader,” Mortiff said, hurrying after him. “The patient’s signs are well, but she is weak and has refused to eat.”

“I will take matters into my own hands,” Vader snarled, not bothering to turn and address him. “No monitoring.”

Mortiff paled, exchanging a glance with the young, male nurse at his side. “Yes . . . Lord Vader. As you wish.”

The chamber’s door hissed open and he stepped in. The chamber was quiet and still, nothing changed but the patient’s position. She was curled in a fetal position, the white sheets pulled tightly around her slender body. Vader gazed on her, frustrated he couldn’t look upon her with his own eyes. He knew she was conscious, her anxiety rolling across the room to him. The cold fear, the sense of an animal trapped after a long race from the jaws of its predator, was such an oddity in this woman that he was willing to believe it was an impostor and immediately dispose of her.

Padmé had never once been afraid, not even when she had collapsed at his feet, fighting for each raspy breath of life. She would have died brave, but a traitor. Now she was alive, and she would join him, and see his life through his eyes and finally understand.

If she wasn’t weak and afraid.

Padmé listened to the rhythmic sound of the respirator. It was like a heinous taunt, ugly and scarring what had once been the only person who had ever truly understood her, or at least, she thought had. Each rasping breath served as an awful reminder of the death of her love. Obi-Wan Kenobi had been right, Anakin Skywalker was dead, murdered by this dark creature of evil.

She wanted to lay there, as if she could fool him into leaving. Her heart cried out, denying the truth and only wanting what it had known for so long before everything had shattered it. Why should she be ignoring Ani? Willing him to leave? It would ask itself while her mind scolded her foolish thoughts. Anakin Skywalker was dead, his goodness and loving ways burned in that lava pit.

But he’s here, and you are not dead. A voice argued.

Your compassion was your undoing, think of your children, another whispered.

Padmé felt a deep sense of protectiveness come over her. If Vader wanted information about Luke and Leia, she would not give it. Nor would she betray the small, almost extinguished rebellion. She would lie here until he terminated her.

Why wasn’t he doing so? Why was he standing there, watching her? Was he trying to intimidate her? Weaken her? Padmé felt an old stubborn spark ignite inside, having been contained in her comatose. She would not be weakened, would not be intimidated. The ice cold fear began to melt slowing with her resolve, yet leaving a trace of frost to linger.

Gradually, she opened her eyes and sat up, stiffening at the sight of the large, black machine before her. A rage of emotions threatened to overwhelm her, but she let herself drift from her innerself, as she had done so many times before when facing dangerous situations where vital decisions controlled the fate of many. Padmé was grateful that she couldn’t see his face, couldn’t see his eyes. There was no illusion of Anakin now, only this evil Sith Lord and murderer. It would be so much easier not to lose herself.

There was the longest eternity of silence, then the black monstrosity spoke. “You have awakened.”

It was such a frivolous statement, and Padmé couldn’t hide her puzzlement. Lord Vader had never wasted a breath on such an obvious statement, yet he was struggling for small talk. Vader never made small talk. “I should be dead,” she said in a flat tone, refusing to let any emotion show through.

“You will be moved to more pleasant quarters,” Vader said, ignoring her prompt. “Your escorts will arrive shortly. You are not to leave your quarters.” He spun around, the heavy cloak billowing behind him, his posture of dominance, but a subtle hasty manner seeping through the bold frame.

“Why did you save me, Ani?” Padmé asked, confused and feeling insecure. She didn’t realize her use of the former name until it had left her lips.

Vader paused the barest second, then stalked out of the chamber, refusing to answer her. The door slid shut, and Padmé was once again alone.

- - - - - - - - - -

A brilliant streak of orange lightning split the turbulent skies of Akara, allowing a brief moment of daylight before surrendering the planet into darkness again. The short bursts of electricity revealed the small, battered frigate of an authentic make nestled against the rocky cliffside. Donned in water-repellent coats, their blasters nestled in their arms, ten guards stood post around the ship and small headquarters entrance, withstanding the onslaught of Mother Nature.

Dericx Hajep pressed his lips together, squinting into the darkness, watching where the green cloud of his glowrod illuminate the rocky path before him. Barely perceptible through the roar of the wind, the crunch of pebbled stone alerted him to Commander Angli’s ascent. He glanced back, admiring the obstinate nature of the attractive woman duly carrying the generator battery over her back and up the steep side to the bunker. The storm gear obscured the slender curves and beautiful face, her frame burdened under the weight of the back. The rain hat was sloshing with water, the dull splats of the fat drops echoing on the rubbery material.

“Think you can make it?” Dericx asked cheerfully, raising his voice above the wind.

“Oh, yes. I’m more concerned about *falling* than collapsing from exhaustion,” Cali-Ana replied wryly. A moment later she was at his side, shifting the back and centering it across her back again.

Dericx smiled tightly, forcing himself not to look down and around him. Being a grown man, he would never admit to anyone he had an intense fear of heights. This small, routine assignment could have gone to anyone, but when Commander Angli had volunteered this round, he’d quickly joined her. Dericx wasn’t a bold or open person, and although all of the rebels welcomed him, he hadn’t made any close friends. Many of his comrades had already formed “groups”, and his social skills lagged. Commander Angli was perhaps a favorite among the small group stationed on Akara. Her often sadistic outlook was cheered with a friendly smile and a pure laugh. Dericx admired her easy, confident manner and had been flattered when she had struck up a conversation when they had both been assign (with several others) to organizing the small arsenal of damaged weapons acquired through smuggling and looting junkyards.

“Just a leg,” Cali-Ana said, her voice swept away in the rain. “Come on, soldier.”

She took the lead, trudging up the slippery rock in her terrain boots. The wind continued to howl, threatening to push them into a free-fall, but they both hugged the wall, fighting back. It seemed hours before they reached the crevice. Cali-Ana ducked in first, sighing as the wind died, leaving only the wet entrance to the cavern containing the power generator. Water dribbled from the overhang, echoing off the high walls. A flash of lightning lit the passage as she fished for her glowrod and entered the damp-smelling cavern.

“Cozy,” she murmured, turning slightly to watch her red-head companion catch up. Dericx was short for the average man, his red, curly hair usually tossled. He had soft, brown eyes that were quick and shy, but quite observant and attentive. He was built with broad shoulders, a strong, compact body giving him an almost young appearance. At forty-two, she was almost five years his senior, yet his manner was often more “mature” than hers. One of my many flaws, she thought silently. Is my inability to truly take anything seriously. Yet, I cannot imagine living every thought with such careful analysis. What kept her focused was the small rebellion, and the memory of what the Empire had destroyed.

“A potential summer home, perhaps?” Dericx joked, gently setting his pack with the generator components beside the repaired machinery.

“The envy of any Alderaanian,” Cali smiled, thinking back to the beautiful planet that had been her home for nearly a decade. She set her own supplies beside him, and without further delay, they set to work fixing yet another malfunction. As she worked, she began to think back to the events that had been the death of over two hundred crusaders. Four months was it now since the Imperial attack on the newly established base on Dantooine? When Queen Amidala of the Naboo had come to her, joining the rebellion after being separated from her loyal handmaiden. Amidala’s body had not been found, but the command she had been with had died aboard one of the captured vessels. Cali had suffered from her own injuries, but none had been worse than the distinct feeling of somehow failing the dead Jedi.

She pushed those dark thoughts away, concentrating on the generator. What was lost was lost, and they would lose more before they won.

- - - - - - - - -

The city of Caracs was suffering a depression Sabé had not anticipated. Zaneeta, like much of the galaxy these days, seemed to have ended their age of learning and enjoyment when the Empire had taken over. Many of the buildings were dilapidated and housing was crowded. After an uneventful journey from Calcutta, Sabé found herself wandering through the city. No directories had been posted to direct her to the lower-class sectors. The residence was imprinted on her mind, and she knew she was within close vicinity of Frazz’s last known hide-out.

The dreary street held no promises of enjoyment or peaceful living. Many of the houses looked abandoned, or victim to gang violence. She was grateful for daylight. She was not as fit and young as she had once been, and even her drilling with Obi-Wan on Tatooine couldn’t prepare her for the dangers of gangs. Her use of the Force only went so far.

Turning a corner, she found herself hopping over a muddy puddle of water, entering another avenue of slightly more adequate housing. Encouraged, she began scanning the address numbers imprinted in Basic and Zinc on the doors. She was halfway down the street when she came across the now familiar numbers.

The street was quiet, the distant voices of fighting carried up through the breeze. Warily, she scanned the buildings, finding the source a block east. Two men fighting over a landspeeder. She pursed her lips and turned her attention back to the three-story house. It was made of brick, which was wearing age and ill-kempt. There was no sign of life, and she cautiously peeked into one boarded window.

Her heart fell. Inside was an empty room, it’s only occupant was a dead rat. Stepping away, she scanned the street again, finding nothing but old, brick houses. They must have dated more than a century back, before technology had become effective to cheap, strong housing.

It was then, amongst the gray afternoon drizzle and the empty, quiet street, Sabé became distinctly aware she was being watched. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled, and the Force was electric. Heart beating rapidly, she backed away from the building, stretching out with the Force to sense the stalker. One hand went to her hip, fingering the tiny blaster resting securely there.

There was a soft scraping of boot on stone, and Sabé whirled towards the sound, the blaster in her hand. Before she could think, a hand clamped over her mouth, pulling her roughly against a strong body. She fired blindly, the bolt cracking against stone. A hand came hard down on hers, releasing the blaster. It clattered to the ground, useless. Then she was bodily dragged away from the street and into a dark alley where the gutter water spilled onto cracked permacrete.

Unable to see her captor, Sabé continued to struggle, but the hold over her mouth and strong arm around her torso held her fast.

The cold press of a blaster barrel ceased her struggle. “If you scream,” a male voice whispered in her ear. “You’re dead. Understood?”

Sabé nodded. The hand lowered from her mouth and she was spun around, pressed against the wet stone, finally able to see her captor.

She stared in disbelief at the young man before her. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, his soft, handsome features complementing jade green eyes and dark, wavy hair. The barrel of his blaster was pressed under her chin, and yet she couldn’t sense true malevolence with the Force.

“What were you doing snooping around here?” he demanded in a cultured voice.

“I-I’m looking for someone,” Sabé said, swearing silently at the quaver in her voice. She drew the Force tightly around her, letting her fear seep out of her. Her eyes and stature became bold and unafraid.

“Who?”

“A friend,” she replied, her voice strong and calm now. “I was told he use to live around here. He owes me some money.”

Keen interest reflected in his eyes. “May I ask who your friend is? Perhaps he owes me money. Remember, I’m the one with the blaster.”

“Who owes you money?” Sabé challenged, her own eyes narrowing.

“I have the blaster, Lady.”

Sabé didn’t answer for a long moment. “Frazz. He was an old pilot before retiring.”

The green eyes widened, and the blaster pressed against her chin. “How do you know him?”

“How do you?”

A tight smile crossed his face. “Nuh-uh. I’m the one asking. Not many people come around here looking for Frazz.”

“I’m not like most people,” Sabé replied evenly. Should she use the code Obi-Wan had told her about? If this man was connected to Frazz, he would surely know it; and if not, then she shouldn’t have too much to lose. When he had first told her, she’d thought he had been joking. “I understand Valorum’s undergarments were purple.”

A wide grin split his face and the blaster lowered. “This way,” he beckoned, gesturing towards the wall. He pressed a supposedly random brick, and the gave way to an old staircase leading below ground.

Hesitantly, Sabé followed him, putting her faith in the Force. The grating of the wall surrendered them to five seconds of blackness, then illumination banks lighted their path, revealing a surprisingly modern and clean environment. Wordlessly, her attacker strode down the long, gray corridor, entering a door to their right.

“Another victim!” he chorused to the room’s occupants.

Sabé startled, ready to flee, but then he turned and smiled broadly. “An old joke, I assure you, M’Lady.”

“Never mind Ramses,” a blue-skinned alien said in a deep, cheerful voice. He was a curious creature, unable to be classified as humanoid or reptilian. He had two legs and two arm appendages, but his skin was of a rough skin, gold cat-like eyes narrowing as he stood and studied Sabé, his nose flat and flared, pointed fangs penetrating his ruby lips, and white feathers decorating his blue skull. “I suppose he gave you a fright by the looks of it.” The gold eyes slitted at the young man, who continued to look nonchalant, if not proud of his “prize”.

A humanoid female with silvery skin and black hair smiled invitingly. “Who sent you, dear? You look as if you’ve had a rough time of it.”

“I would prefer to speak with Frazz,” Sabé said.

The blue alien smiled. “I am Frazz, and you?”

“Sabé . . . Kenobi.”

The gold eyes widened. “Obi-Wan Kenobi? Ah, yes. You’re the Queen’s bodyguard, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You’re not.”

“You wish to speak in private, then? Ramses, get this girl something warm to drink. She looks as if the Imperials have interrogated her with a rancor.”

“Oh, it’s not that terrible,” Sabé blushed, feeling embarrassed by her ragged feeling.

“Nonsense!” Frazz cried. “Sit in this fine room and tell me why you have come all this way.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The “fine room” was square and plainly decorated with gray walls, bright lighting, a small communications console, a black table with six chairs. Upon moments of her arrival, she was being fed, clothed, and housed. The hospitality seemed to spring from her marriage to a Jedi Knight. Frazz asked nothing of Obi-Wan with others present, but she could sense his curiosity. Lorlen, the silver woman, seemed to be the quiet, proper leader. As she was seated in a comfortable chair, sipping hot tea, Frazz seated himself across the table from her.

“First things first. Welcome to the Hole,” Frazz began, waving one arm around the room. “The Zinc freedom-fighting unit. It isn’t much more than a safe headquarters for those seeking refuge from the Empire. You’ve seen but a small section. There are currently thirty absolute members, and several who come and go.” His golden eyes narrowed on her. “And you, M’Lady, are in distress, and sent here by your husband, no doubt.”

Sabé smiled tightly. “You’re more observant and not quite as . . . eccentric as I would have anticipated. And this is nothing like what I expected.”

Frazz smiled. “We have a front. The Imperials are suspicious of another unit, which is comprised of a gang of outlaws. We are well-hidden, acting mainly as a bolthole. We are not yet active in raids on any battles. No, what is your purpose?”

“Obi-Wan did send me, against his will,” Sabé admitted with a soft, fond smile. Then her manner turned serious. “A few months ago, I was separated from Her Highness in an Imperial raid. We had both been instructed to rendezvous on Tatooine. I made it, but Amidala has not presented herself. I’m afraid she might have been captured by Imperials. Or by pirates.”

“And you’re going to scavenge the galaxy until you find her,” Frazz finished.

“Yes. But a Missing Persons search would only result in certain death for both of us,” Sabé said with a sigh. “Obi-Wan said you would have connections.”

“Kenobi was always an intelligent one,” Frazz smiled, his fangs flashing gleefully. “His Padawan . . . never saw such an enthusiastic kid to annoy his Master. And I thought Kenobi had been such a pest at that age . . . Anyway,” he licked his tips. “I’ll contact the higher-ups immediately. Until there is any information, I suggest you rest up and socialize. Ramses, since you two are already acquainted, can give you a more detailed tour.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Padmé fought back the chilling shiver as she gazed around her new quarters. The journey from the medical wing of the enormous Star Destroyer had not been in the least enjoyable. A contigent of eight stormtroopers had escorted her through the maze, and she had been manacled the entire journey. She should have accepted the hardly delectable entré, for she had been unsteady and dizzy as they crossed the ship. A misstep or hesitance had only earned her a sharp jab by a blaster to keep moving.

No had greeted or said a word, and she had been literally tossed into this larger prison. It was hardly a prison by Imperial standards, as evidence of the luxury and spacious rooms and annexes. She was in private quarters for sure, but who’s was still in question. The room she had been displaced in was as plain as her cell before, only furnished with untouched luxuries. Luxuries she could not make sense of. There was the soft sleep bench, and the room was probably designed to be living quarters for an honored guest. But of what honor? The bare, gray walls, the desolate atmosphere of the cold, practical set-up could only depress a sentient being. Beyond the opened threshold, she could see the halls and corridors leading off to some unknown destination, and the walls spoke of foreboding.

A throbbing ache in her head forced her to collapse onto the sleep couch, and she could feel hot tears of exhaustion and fear sting her blurring eyes. She might have scolded herself for being so spindless and letting Anakin slip through her fingers into that dark void, but it was as if her mind refused to think, refused to move beyond these barren walls.

Curling up into a fetal position, she let her tears come, her delicate, slender body racking with such convulsions one would have thought her suffering from a severe seizure.

*Veruna’s skull, Sabé! Why did you abandon me? Damn you, Kenobi! How could you lose Ani? How could you do this to us? How could I let you take Luke and Leia away from me?*

The fury inside her swelled, fueling her raging tears. The medication she had been given upon awaking was wearing off, leaving her discouraged and vulnerable.

Through her despondency, Padmé sensed rather than heard the entrance of another. The immediate chill and heavy breathing stabbed through her tears, and with a choked breath, she ceased her bout and sat up in a rigid position, reddened eyes glaring with an inflexible gaze.

“If I am to be executed, there is no point in playing games,” Padmé said an unwavering tone that surprised even her.

Lord Vader didn’t respond, and she expected him to continue to stand there and gaze upon her with his unfeeling eyes she could not see. She wondered briefly what his eyes were like now, if they were still that beautiful blue that had held so much joy and love, or if they were a black cauldron of hate.

“You are not to be executed under my command,” Vader spoke in that deep, foreboding voice. His respirator rasped harshly.

“May I dare inquire what is to be my fate, then?” Padmé ventured, fortifying herself even more. Damn Kenobi if she could not reach her husband now.

Another long pause. “Your destiny lies with me, ruling the galaxy.”

A flash of anger passed through her, and she was suddenly swept back to her past in that pivotal moment. “I will never join you, Vader. Anakin Skywalker, yes. But never a Sith Lord.”

Vader took a large step towards her, the rasping growing in tempo. Padmé took a reflexive step back, bracing herself for a live-ending blow. “It is your destiny, as mine. A destiny you refuse to follow, so you deny me of mine!” The deafening echo of his anger caused her to shrink back in fear.

“As you denied our love!” Padmé cried back. “You killed millions! Everyone and everything I loved!”

“You wouldn’t understand!”

Padmé stared, and suddenly, she saw Anakin Skywalker as he had been those seven years ago. Had it really only been seven? She didn’t need the Force to sense the sudden reborn emotion in this black machine before her, and it struck as incredibly human and beyond fathomable belief. The intense pulse at her neck interrupted her sudden realization. Reflexively, she reached up, feeling the pressure tighten.

“A-ani-“

“That name has no meaning to me!” The Sith roared, his wrath crashing into her mind, filling her with such a squall she let out a scream of pain. It seared through her, and she couldn’t breathe as the pressure closed over her throat.

**ANI!** she pleaded silently, seeing a flash of images before her. Horrifying, abominable images, memories of this creature’s torment, of everything he experienced, of what he wanted to do to her now. Snap her neck after she died slowly as her lungs bled and pleaded as they had before.

She was going to die again.

Padmé closed her eyes, deciding it wasn’t worth the fight. Not after what she had seen.

The heavy footsteps echoed dully in her head, and Padmé startled, yelping as she sat upright on the bed. She blinked rapidly, her head swimming as she stared around the empty chamber. There was no sign of Vader, and the footsteps had stopped. Her heart was racing, and she tentatively reached up and rubbed her neck, as if it had been strangled. She had died twice, yet she had managed, however reluctantly, to return to life.

The footsteps resumed their march of doom towards the chamber, and Padmé knew that this time it wasn’t a dream.