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“It may be too late already.”

“It may be. And it may not be. We can only do what we can do, Mace. A very, very wise Jedi once said to me, We don’t have to win. All we have to do is fight.”

Some of the lines erased themselves from the Korun Master’s face then, and when he met Obi-Wan’s eye there was a quirk at the corner of his mouth that might someday develop into a smile—a tired, sad smile, but a smile nonetheless. “I seem,” he said slowly, “to have forgotten that particular Jedi. Thank you for reminding me.”

“It was the least I could do,” Obi-Wan said lightly, but a sad weight had gathered on his chest.

Things change, indeed.

Anakin’s heart pounded in his throat, but he kept smiling, and nodding, and shaking hands—and trying desperately to work his way toward a familiar golden-domed protocol droid who hung back beyond the crowd of Senators, right arm lifted in a small, tentative wave at R2-D2.

She wasn’t here. Why wasn’t she here?

Something must have happened.

He knew, deep in his guts, that something had happened to her. An accident, or she was sick, or she’d been caught in one of the vast number of buildings hit by debris from the battle today … She might be trapped somewhere right now, might be wounded, might be smothering, calling out his name, might be feeling the approach of flames—

Stop it, he told himself. She’s not hurt. If anything had happened to her, he would know. Even from the far side of the Outer Rim, he would know.

So why wasn’t she here?

Had something …

He could barely breathe. He couldn’t make himself even think it. He couldn’t stop himself from thinking it.

Had something changed? For her?

In how she felt?

He managed to disengage himself from Tundra Dowmeia’s clammy grip and insistent invitations to visit his family’s deepwater estate on Mon Calamari; he slid past the Malastarian Senator Ask Aak with an apologetic shrug.

He had a different Senator on his mind.

R2 was wheeping and beeping and whistling intensely when Anakin finally struggled free of the mass of sweaty, grasping politicians; C-3PO had turned away dismissively. “It couldn’t have been that bad. Don’t exaggerate! You’re hardly even dented.”

R2’s answering feroo sounded a little defensive. C-3PO sent a wisp of static through his vocabulator that sounded distinctly like a disapproving sniff. “On that point I agree; you’re long overdue for a tune-up. And, if I may say so, a bath.”

“Threepio—”

Anakin came up close beside the droid he had built in the back room of his mother’s slave hovel on Tatooine: the droid who had been both project and friend through his painful childhood: the droid who now served the woman he loved …

Threepio had been with her all these months, had seen her every day, had touched her, perhaps even today—he could feel echoes of her resonating outward from his electroplated shell, and they left him breathless.

“Oh, Master Anakin!” Threepio exclaimed. “I am very glad to find you well! One does worry, when friends fall out of touch! Why, I was saying to the Senator, just the other day—or was it last week? Time seems to run together so; do you think you might have the opportunity to adjust my internal calendar settings while you’re—”

“Threepio, have you seen her?” Anakin was trying so hard not to shout that his voice came out a strangled croak. “Where is she? Why isn’t she here?”

“Oh, well, certainly, certainly. Officially, Senator Amidala is extremely busy,” C-3PO said imperturbably. “She has been sequestered all day in the Naboo embassy, reviewing the new Security Act, preparing for tomorrow’s debate—”

Anakin couldn’t breathe. She wasn’t here, hadn’t come to meet him, over some debate?

The Senate. He hated the Senate. Hated everything about it.

A red haze gathered inside his head. Those self-righteous, narrow-minded, grubby little squabblers … He’d be doing the galaxy a favor if he were to go over there right now and just—

“Wait,” he murmured, blinking. “Did you say, officially?”