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intelligence and beauty, of innocence and allure, of courage and integrity and yet with a good measure of a child’s mischievousness, floored Typho every time he looked upon her.
    The captain turned from the descending entourage back to Dolphe across the way, offering a satisfied nod in acknowledgment of the man’s point-running work.
    And then, suddenly, Typho was lying facedown on the permacrete, thrown to the ground by a tremendous concussion, blinded for a moment by a brilliant flash as anexplosion roared behind him. He looked up as his vision returned to see Dolphe sprawled on the ground.
    Everything seemed to move in slow motion for Typho at that terrible moment. He heard himself yelling “No!” as he scrambled to his knees and turned about.
    Pieces of burning metal spread through the Coruscant sky like fireworks, fanning high and wide from the wreckage. The remaining hulk of the Royal Cruiser burned brightly, and seven figures lay on the ground before it, one wearing the decorated raiments that Typho knew so very well.
    Disoriented from the blast, the captain stumbled as he tried to rise. A great lump welled in his throat, for he knew what had happened.
    Typho was a veteran warrior, had seen battle, had seen people die violently, and in looking at those bodies, in looking at Amidala’s beautiful robes, at their placement about the very still form, he instinctively knew.
    The woman’s wounds were surely mortal. She was fast dying, if not already dead.
    “You reset the coordinates!” Obi-Wan Kenobi said to his young Padawan. Obi-Wan’s wheat-colored hair was longer now, hanging loosely about his shoulders, and a beard, somewhat unkempt, adorned his still-young-looking face. His light brown Jedi traveling clothes, loose fitting and comfortable, seemed to settle on him well. For Obi-Wan had become comfortable, had grown into the skin of Jedi Knight. No longer was he the intense and impulsive Jedi Padawan learner under the training of Qui-Gon Jinn.
    His companion at this time, however, appeared quite the opposite. Anakin Skywalker looked as if his tall, thin frame simply could not contain his overabundance of energy. He was dressed similarly to Obi-Wan, but his clothing seemed tighter, crisper, and his muscles under italways seemed taut with readiness. His sandy-blond hair was cropped short now, except for the thin braid indicative of his status as a Jedi Padawan. His blue eyes flashed repeatedly, as if bursts of energy were escaping.
    “Just to lengthen our time in hyperspace a bit,” he explained. “We’ll come out closer to the planet.”
    Obi-Wan gave a great and resigned sigh and sat down at the console, noting the coordinates Anakin had input. There was little the Jedi could do about it now, of course, for a hyperspace leap couldn’t be reset once the jump to lightspeed had already been made. “We cannot exit hyperspace too close to Coruscant’s approach lanes. There’s too much congestion for a safe flight. I’ve already explained this to you.”
    “But—”
    “Anakin,” Obi-Wan said pointedly, as if he were scolding a pet perootu cat, and he tightened his wide jaw and stared hard at his Padawan.
    “Yes, Master,” Anakin said, obediently looking down.
    Obi-Wan held the glare for just a moment longer. “I know that you’re anxious to get there,” he conceded. “We have been too long away from home.”
    Anakin didn’t look up, but Obi-Wan could see the edges of his lips curl up in a bit of a smile.
    “Never do this again,” Obi-Wan warned, and he turned and walked out of the shuttle’s bridge.
    Anakin flopped down into the pilot’s chair, his chin falling into his hand, his eyes set on the control panels. The order had been about as direct as one could get, of course, and so Anakin silently told himself that he would adhere to it. Still, as he considered their current destination, and who awaited them there, he thought the scolding worth it, even if his resetting of the coordinates had