She turned and pounced on the 8-T’s dome; it whistled once in consternation but otherwise kept to its task. No obvious interface presented itself. If she was going to use the droids, she would have to work with their existing programming.

Orla clambered to her feet, ignoring the stab of pain in her ankle. From her vantage point she could see that Cohmac was pinned near one of the central arches. Overhead curved one of the bowers, so thickly enveloped in vines that the metal was almost invisible.

This was one of those rare moments when a blaster would’ve been more useful than a lightsaber. Orla reminded herself to carry one in future, then summoned the strength to leap even farther up than before—again half levitating—soaring all the way up to the bower. At the topmost point, she swung her lightsaber, severing the bower’s connection to the ceiling. As the metal sagged and she began her descent, she yelled, “Look out above!” Her friend would need no more than that to understand what she’d set into motion.

Orla controlled her fall as best she could, but even her soft landing sent more pain jolting through her entire leg. The poison had continued to spread. Antitox, she thought. As soon as possible. Just not yet.

Entangled as it was in vines, the bower fell in stages—each stem unraveling only so far, then pausing, until the weight forced it to go farther still. It wobbled from side to side, which got the attention of the 8-Ts. Orla limped back toward the thick of the fray. As she’d anticipated, Cohmac had figured out her plan; he’d edged backward until he was well clear of the bower’s ultimate resting place. The Drengir, believing their enemies to be in retreat, had moved into prime position. Orla rejoined Cohmac, each of them parrying blows from the thorn whips with their sabers in a whir of light. Every sweep of a saber sent the tips of thorns spraying around the station, like deadly poison darts.

The bower finally tumbled to the floor with a thud. It clocked one of the Drengir, but that was just a side benefit. The Drengir were covered with the vines and trapped as surely as though they’d been caught in a net. That wouldn’t last long, of course, before they got out. Orla wanted them to get out—or, rather, she wanted them to try.

“Cut yourselves free!” yelled the Drengir leader. One of his spiky hands slashed through a vine with a spray of sap. The other Drengir followed suit, shredding the vines with all their might.

And that was when the 8-Ts stepped in.