CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

"OH, THIS SHOULD BE VERY INTERESTING," LYSANDER SAID SOFTLY, DROPPING HIS ARM AND LOOKING BACK AT ARTIE. HIS ICE-BLUE EYES DANCED WITH WICKED INTRIGUE, and Artie did not like it one bit.

Her stomach lurched with worry for Obi-Wan. How could he have been found out already? They had only been on-planet for a few hours — and where was Rex? Was Anakin still undiscovered? Ahsoka? Reason told her it was only a matter of time before their entire plan fell into shambles. Scowling deeply, Artie struggled to look appropriately perplexed rather than sick with alarm. For her own sake, Lysander could not know she was in on any of this, or his ego wouldn't be enough to keep her alive — she'd manipulated him, and he wouldn't let her live for it. Not this time. Not when the idea of killing her was so fresh in his mind.

Artie risked speaking. "The Jedi are here?" she asked meekly.

Lysander adjusted the holster on his belt, not quite meeting her eyes. "A Jedi, apparently," he said. "A joy to see how her Majesty reacts to this." He slipped the shock-transmitter back into his palm and resumed his hold on Artie's arm. "I guess you get to see the auction up close, eh? Lucky you."

He steered her out of the dim room and back into the brilliant gold-lacquered corridors. Sunlight spilled in from the great transom windows and Artie blinked uncomfortably at the abrupt change in lighting. She stumbled and Lysander hauled her along harshly. He led her down a few stairwells, through the way she, Anakin, and Ahsoka had come before. Instead of heading down the corridor that would take them to the streets, however, he took a different turn and they emerged out into a large courtyard, everything vaguely jaundiced from the amber haze that hung across the sky.

     Lysander marched them to a sleek shuttle docked among several other top-of-the-line starships, albeit they were all coated in thick dust the rusty color of the hard clay ground. He ushered Artie aboard and barked to the waiting Zygerrian pilot: "Colosseum. The auction's starting early."

     And with a lurch, they took off. Artie kept her stare straight ahead, fixed on the blank durasteel wall that boxed her in, kept her from hurling herself to freedom. Lysander didn't try to speak, just kept his hand locked around her arm at the bicep. The collar hummed against her neck. Artie wondered if she could pry it off by using the Force; she'd seen locks undone in the same way and reasoned it couldn't be much different . . . but how could she attempt it without Lysander realizing? She'd have to wait until he was engrossed by the auction. Lovely images of her breaking open his nose crossed Artie's mind and bestowed on her an odd rush of courage — after all, she should never forget what she was capable of. She always forgot what she was capable of when it counted. Artie had never shaken the feeling that she was some kind of fraud with no right to be where she was and do what she did.

The shuttle ride was brief and no sooner had Artie lost herself in her thoughts did she find herself back in the Zygerrian streets. Lysander hurried them up a broad sandstone staircase that fronted a cube-shaped building jutting high into the air. Artie could hear gathered masses behind the thick yellow walls, footsteps and heavy conversation muffled by distance and stone. It wasn't often that she truly leaned into the Force, but she allowed her subconscious to dip a bit deeper in; she sensed hundreds, perhaps many thousands of life-forces within the colosseum . . . and a scattered few beneath it. Slaves, she thought darkly. A moment's more searching and she felt that Anakin was near as well, the energy surrounding him tense and wound-up like a sailor's knot. Perhaps the Queen was a taxing companion and the "extent of her beauty" did little to take the edge off her unpleasantness. At least that was what Artie hoped.

Lysander kept at a brisk pace. They marched determinedly through the first level where slavemasters, socialites, and decorated military personnel seemed to congregate, everyone Artie laid eyes on fabulously dressed in silks and jewels enough to buy any pauper meals for months. Lysander pulled her into a turbolift on the perimeter of the room, however, and she had no time to nurture her disgust.

On the ride up, he still did not speak. Artie wondered if he was embarrassed about what he'd said to her not a half-hour before, admitting he missed her, implying her might want her in a way that made Artie sick to think about, considering all he had done to her. You think I couldn't love you?

Once, Artie had hoped with all her heart he would.

     If she admitted things herself, she knew deep down why his betrayal, his continuous hurt and abuse, was so difficult to endure; it would be one thing, for instance, if he had been a stranger before, obsessed with capturing a prize. It would be one thing if she had never known him. She could have found it within herself to kill him. She would have killed him on Tatooine two years ago. But Lysander . . . hadn't he once been kind to her? Hadn't she once, albeit by the mind of a child, loved him in the unsure, unversed way she knew how? Artie remembered an optimistic Lysander, just a whisker past sixteen, grinning broadly at her beneath twin suns as the waning day turned his white hair blood-orange. Artie remembered being thirteen and adoring this older boy, her best friend, who made life so less miserable than it could have been. She remembered in her younger years hoping with all her heart that she would grow up beautiful and he would want to marry her. Artie would have done anything for him. Anything. But what he ultimately asked of her . . .

Artie had loathed his joining the Hutts' syndicate, but never in a thousand lifetimes would she have expected him to involve her. To demand that she give up her physical self. Never would she have expected such a betrayal from someone so dear to her. Not again.

     Even Anakin did not know how deeply Artie's devotion to Lysander had run. She was too afraid he'd think her mad, think her despicable for caring for a man who became so vile. But for years, Lysander was her only solace, her only companion, the only living thing that gave her courage to continue this life. As a grown woman, she could look back and pinpoint signs she'd missed as a child — Lysander's anger, for one, and the peculiar streak of ruthlessness in his soul. At the time she had believed him brave and resolved to survive. Now, she understood he had always been cruel, it was just a fateful day when he turned it on her. The instant she had denied him his way . . .

Artie knew she'd never truly gotten over the hurt. Her love for him, of course, was dead and uprooted, never to return, but she would never stop wondering how Lysander could so carelessly ruin something she had considered so precious. She would never stop wondering what it was about her that made others so inclined to leave her.

The turbolift halted on the highest level of the colosseum. Lysander straightened his shoulders. "Behave," he warned Artie, and the lift's doors slid open. But first —

Lysander swiped a thumb over the lock-pad on Artie's shackles and they loosened. Didn't fall, but loosened. She wheeled around to search his face but saw only cold aloofness and a hard mouth and mean eyes that wouldn't look at her. He pushed her forward.

Before the spectator's box even came into full view, Artie knew Anakin was there. She saw him in her mind's eye, standing near the Queen. When the room was revealed, he was right where she had expected, his face harsh and pulled down in a scowl, his hands clasped stiffly behind his back. Ahsoka stood by a little ways away. She had a collar, too.

     When Artie and Lysander stepped into the room, Anakin hazarded a look back at them; his fierce stare lingered on Artie's face, then dropped to the collar around her throat. A muscle in his jaw twitched. Lysander must have noticed. He chuckled once, quietly, little more than a bounce of his chest, and just because he could, rested his arm at the base of Artie's spine. His gloved hand curled around the curve of her hip and her skin crawled like it hosted maggots. That would have been preferable in Artie's opinion.

     "Lysander, darling," the Queen said from her chair, voice languid, her clawed fingers lifting in greeting, "you will never guess who we caught."

     Lysander smiled falsely. "Who, Your Grace?"

     The Queen's face became wickedly satisfied, her upturned amber eyes flashing with contempt and triumph. She rose from her seat and spread her arms to welcome the wide burst of applause she received as she approached the edge of the box.

     "My beautiful subjects," she called, and her voice rang out across the colosseum as if suddenly miked, "my friends from a thousand worlds! Welcome! Before we begin this historic auction, I have for your entertainment a most esteemed and admired guest." Her words were weighed down by irony. She gestured to the mouth of one of the entrance tunnels. "Obi-Wan Kenobi."

     Artie's stomach dropped. Into the glaring sunlight stepped Obi-Wan, flanked by two guards. He clutched his ribs with one arm and visored his eyes with the other. His tunic was filthy, smeared with dust, dirt, and blood, torn so badly on one sleeve it almost fell off his arm. Artie had never seen him look anything but stoic, steady and cool. Ready for anything. And now, to see Obi-Wan in pain, to see him weakened, belittled, brought tears to her eyes. She fought back a sob, kept it lodged in her throat.

     The Queen sneered down at Obi-Wan. "Look at the Jedi! Look what they have become! Blind slaves to a corrupt Senate! Slaves to a Republic long lost!" She paused for a moment, let the massive crowd shriek their insults, their jeers, their curses down at Obi-Wan. He stood still and took it all, cool blue eyes settled on the Queen. "Their Order has lost its way. Peace, they plead for, but bring war wherever they step foot! Denied us our commerce, denied us our rightful place within the galaxy! But no more. The Jedi are weak. Today, we help them break!"

     Deafening cheers. More vehement shouting. Still, Obi-Wan did not react. One of the guards came up behind him and kicked him to his knees. Artie whimpered strangely. Her eyes flew to Ahsoka and found the younger girl steely faced and fraught with anger.

The Queen turned suddenly to Anakin. "Time to earn my trust, Quell. Prove to me you are a slaver, and teach this Jedi his place." And she produced an electro-whip from her hip and placed it in Anakin's grasp.

It was too much. She couldn't watch that. Artie's fear moved her lips before any thought could be put to her words. "No! Don't!"

The Queen's attention snapped to her. Anakin looked up sharply, his face full of warning, but it was too late. Lysander's grip tightened a fraction, but it did not seem angry. Wary, maybe. The Queen fixed her feline eyes on Artie, affronted, stunned, even.

     "Oh?" she said. "You dare speak to me? Say a word while in my presence?"

Lysander took half a step forward. "She hasn't been processed yet."

The Queen raised the flat of her palm. "Be still. She's trouble, you've said? Then have her join Kenobi. Processing is merely a lesson taught, a will shattered."

Terror struck Artie's heart, but she set her jaw and returned the Queen's sneer. "Let me take his place."

She could feel Lysander's stare. She knew he was thinking fast, fabricating suspicions, and by all accounts he'd probably end up being right. But there was nothing Artie could do at that point. She just knew she couldn't watch Obi-Wan suffer.

"Ha!" the Queen broke into a fantastic grin. Her teeth were small and pointed. "The skug thinks she may make deals with me. Any sympathizer is as detestable as an actual Jedi. You will join Kenobi and feel the pain weakness promises at his side. Lysander — hand her over."

For a split second, Artie thought he might protest. But he put his hand on the small of her back and shoved her forward, in Anakin's direction. Anakin watched Artie for a moment, then turned back to the Queen.

"As you wish."

He stepped towards Artie slowly. His face was unreadable, flat, and it made her afraid. In her soul, she knew Anakin would never hurt her, never even think it . . . but she had never seen him look so unfamiliar. She had absolutely no idea what he could be planning, and there had never been a more daunting thought.

Anakin took her by the shoulder and pushed her ahead of him, back into the turbolift. She turned around in time to catch Lysander's narrowed stare before he disappeared behind the closing doors.

As soon as they were alone, Anakin's aggression melted away. He grasped Artie by the shoulders and leveled his face with hers.

    "Are you all right?" he asked in a voice so desperate, so concerned, Artie couldn't take it.

Tears snaked down her cheeks. "No." It came out as a choked whine. Artie kicked herself inwardly, so tired of her own weakness. Why can't I ever let this go?

"Did he touch you?"

A sniffle. More tears. Embarrassment set her ears ablaze. "Yes."

Anakin exhaled slowly and the effort it took him to remain calm was obvious. His jaw flexed as he set his teeth hard against each other. "Did he hurt you?"

"He told me he would. He pulled a blaster on me." Her forehead prickled where the barrel had pressed hard against her skin. She thumbed the collar. "He put this on so I wouldn't use the Force to get away."

"We gotta get it off," he said decidedly, and lifted a hand, but Artie stopped him.

"Not now. They'll know it was you."

"Artie . . ." His brow sank with a heavy scowl, a grimace that heralded tears, his mouth twisting with words unspoken. "Artemis, I'm —"

"We don't have time."

"I'm getting us out of this."

Artie turned away from him. "Thanks to my genius thinking, you've gotta beat the kriff out of me first."

"No," he shook his head once, eyes on the floor. "No, I'll die before that happens."

Her chin wobbled. "You just might."

The lift doors slid open. They were back on the ground floor. Straight ahead, the arena floor waited, bright white in the sun, clouds of dust pluming across its expanse. Artie squinted against the harsh light and saw Obi-Wan on the auction platform, the two Zygerrian guards looming over him. They were poised for a fight, practically seemed to vibrate with the anticipation of causing Obi-Wan more humiliation. Anakin led her slowly to them. The spectators roared with confusion and interest as they came into view, joined Obi-Wan on the platform.

     "What's this?" one of the guards spat.

     "An insubordinate," Anakin said smoothly. "The Queen requested her punishment as well. I'm to carry it out on both of them."

     Artie resisted for show; Anakin pushed her down beside Obi-Wan in one swift motion. The older Master turned to peer at her curiously.

     "And just what did you do to get here?" he wondered aloud under his breath.

    "I asked to take your place."

     "Artemis . . ." he managed to sound both touched and exasperated. "That's noble of you, but now —"

     "I didn't do it out of nobility," she interjected impatiently. "I did it because you're my friend and I love you. I'm only sorry I risked our identities."

     Artie didn't care if he disapproved of that kind of talk, or didn't know how to take it. She wanted him to know it. She had the vague but insistent suspicion that things were about to become unbelievably nasty for the both of them, and at the very least Obi-Wan deserved to hear how she felt, to know she truly cared for him. How often did he get to hear that from anyone but Anakin? Despite all his respect and reverence for the older Masters, Artie couldn't believe that they were in any way fulfilling friends to Obi-Wan.

     Anakin approached them from behind. His footsteps halted about a yard away. From there, Artie could hear the electro-whip humming in his hand. He mumbled: "At what point did you want me to intervene?" There was a small note of teasing in his voice, but Artie could not find the humor in where they found themselves.

     Obi-Wan shrugged. "Whenever suited you. I assumed you'd have a backup plan."

     The Queen pointed a long finger at Anakin. "Swing that whip," she called down to them from ten stories in the air, "or die beside them both."

     Anakin sighed. "Not giving me much wiggle room, is she?" Artie sensed him turn, bow. He lifted his voice, "You've left me no choice, Highness." The whip snapped to life and its electrified glowing thong snaked out of the handle. Anakin raised his arm.

     "Roll left," Obi-Wan whispered.

     The whip cracked like shrieking lightning, and Artie dove out of the way; she tumbled off the platform and landed on her shoulder on the hard, sand-packed ground. The shackles burst open. Her head snapped up and she saw Anakin had struck one of the guards instead of her. Something in Artie's peripheral flashed, and with moments to spare she snatched a lightsaber hilt out of the air. She ignited it and the bright blue plasma was hardly visible against the glaring sky. One glance behind her told her that Anakin had wound up with hers, the white blade slicing through an advancing guard's arm.

     Artie leaped into action — she had no choice but to. Three Zygerrian soldiers tried to corner her against the platform and in a desperate grab for the advantage, Artie threw out a hand and felt the Force lurch through her; one of the guards went flying backward and Artie did not waste time searching where he landed, just prayed he was unconscious. The pair remaining lifted their blasters and opened fire and it was all Artie could do to deflect the beams away, one after the other in flinching, trained motions. The basics were the only things keeping her alive. She tilted Anakin's saber a fraction forward and let the next two shots parry back into their shooters; the guards dropped almost in the same instant. Artie moved on.

     She made it two steps toward Obi-Wan before her entire being exploded with pain.

     Her hand swiped at her throat before she keeled to the ground. It made no difference. She crumpled and the back of her skull struck the hard sand with all her weight behind it. Artie couldn't hear her own scream over the thrilled roars of the crowd, only felt it flay her throat, felt blood surging to her head with the effort her anguish required. Her back arched away from the ground as the electric current took control of every muscle, every nerve, her boots sliding frictionlessly through the slick dust and sand. In not so many words, she thought: This is what will kill me. He won't relent until I'm gone.

     Suddenly the current left her as swiftly as it had come. Artie laid in the dirt, gasping to catch her breath, spazzing strangely as her body reeled to regain control of itself. When her vision came back into focus, she realized someone stood over her, their tall boots a foot from her head, poised protectively with lightsaber flashing blue and striking away more electro-whip lashes. Obi-Wan.

"Get out of here!" she cried. She managed to roll over halfway, grind the heel of her hand into the ground and push herself up. "Go!"

"I said no more nobility!" Obi-Wan shouted back. He thrashed out with his saber, electricity arcing up the blade as he cut away each snap of a whip. But Obi-Wan was growing tired and Artie could tell; it was obvious he had taken a beating before this, and pure determination could only take one so far. Artie grit her teeth and got shakily to her feet.

     Anakin's lightsaber reignited in her hand. She joined Obi-Wan in the fray, all the while praying that Lysander wouldn't activate the collar again. Why should he get to? she thought suddenly. Warding off lashes with the saber in one arm, she curled a fist around the cold metal collar and imagined the strength of a tumultuous sea behind her grasp. The Force yielded. The next instant, Artie felt metal crush into her palm, wires snap, circuits fry. The collar became useless, an ugly band around her neck. Triumph engulfed her. Perhaps she should reckon with herself more.

Her optimism did not last.

All in two seconds, Obi-Wan misstepped, an error to blame only on his pure exhaustion, and two whips struck him. One crackled around his dueling arm and the other constricted his throat. Obi-Wan let out a strangled cry and dropped to his knees, eyes rolling back in his head.

"No!" Artie yelped and made to sever the electrified thongs, but another Zygerrian reared back and lashed her so hard she keeled immediately to the ground. She shrieked as her shoulder erupted with pain, burning, burning through her shirt, through her skin, hot currents eating through the muscle. Her mouth filled with a horrible metallic taste, each and every one of her teeth feeling like they were being simultaneously pulled from her skull . . . . It was too much. Too much. Artie could hear Anakin still fighting behind them on the platform. Obi-Wan didn't stir. More soldiers were approaching, brandishing more whips, jeering and shouting at them. Oh, the pain was too much . . .

Artie's eyes drifted shut and black shadow folded over her like a crashing wave. She heard nothing more than her blood roaring in her ears. Then only her heartbeat. Then nothing at all.

note.
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