by Karen Miller
Sidious waited a moment, in case Yoda decided to supply even a crumb of information about Anakin’s latest assignment. When it became clear that the Jedi had no intention of confiding details—and knowing that to push would achieve nothing but a stirring of Yoda’s suspicions—he accepted the temporary defeat and smiled.
“Well, Master Yoda, whatever my young friend is doing I’m sure it will end in yet more brilliant success,” he said. “And I thank you for giving up your precious time to me this evening. I know how tired you must be, working so diligently for our Republic’s victory. But unless there’s anything urgent I should know, I’m afraid I must ask you to excuse me. I have some rather tricky negotiations to conclude with the Shahmistra of J’doytzin Three. One of those awkward conversations that sadly cannot be trusted to the Diplomatic Bureau.”
“Of course, Supreme Chancellor,” said Yoda, and slid from his chair to the floor. “Apprised will I keep you of matters regarding Kothlis. And if further whispers of dissatisfaction from its government you should hear…”
“Then I shall tell you immediately,” Sidious said. “On that you have my word.”
Yoda nodded, the closest he ever came to a properly respectful obeisance, summoned his gimer stick to his hand and made his doddering, ancient way out of the office.
Darth Sidious watched the doors hiss shut behind his enemy, then indulged in a single, silent snarl of fury. How unfortunate that Palpatine did indeed have a meeting with the tedious Shahmistra. But when that business was concluded and the night belonged to him alone, then would he investigate this matter of Anakin.
For I am uneasy. I sense that something is wrong.
Vaguely disquieted, Yoda returned to the Temple in a Senate speeder, so deeply lost in thought that for once the beauty of the Coruscant night failed to touch him.
There was nothing specific he could point to, but of late he found himself uneasy in Palpatine’s presence. He couldn’t explain it. He knew only that something felt… off-kilter. But so much was off-kilter these days that he’d kept his feelings of unease to himself, not even confiding them to Mace Windu.
Was it Palpatine’s continued meddling with Anakin Skywalker? Never in the administration’s history had a Chancellor been so personally involved with the Jedi. Or was it Palpatine’s slow and steady march toward absolute control in the Senate? It didn’t matter that not once had he requested these expansions of his jurisdiction, these amendments to the Republic Constitution that allowed him such far-reaching influence over so many lives. Nor did it matter that the more power Palpatine was given, the more reluctant it seemed he was to use it, stepping in to resolve a dispute or create legislation only when the Senate begged him to act. And of course he was never anything but fulsome in his praise and steadfast in his support of the Jedi.
Even so, by this politician troubled I am. Trust him more I would if his ambition could I clearly see.
And that thought had him shaking his head. Surely a politician motivated purely by service to the Republic, with no thought for his own success or personal power, was precisely the kind of leader these dark times required? Wasn’t that Bail Organa’s brand of politics, and did he not trust and admire the senator from Alderaan? Yes. He did. Which must mean his concern over Palpatine was misplaced. After all, Senator Amidala had complete faith in him. And as he trusted Bail Organa so did he trust Naboo’s former queen.
But trust them more than my own feelings, do I?
That was indeed the question. And if he had learned one thing during his long, eventful life, it was that any being who did not permit self-doubt would certainly, at some point, make a grave error in judgment. Nine hundred years had granted him many advantages, but infallibility wasn’t one of them.
Weary am I. Worry for Obi-Wan and Anakin do I feel. Distort perceptions this can. Clear my mind I must and seek for answers in the Force.
And he would, just as soon as he’d taken care of two last pressing concerns. The first thing he did upon his return to the Temple was make his way to the quietly bustling communications center, where Master Ban-yaro waited.
“I’m sorry, Master Yoda, but there’s still no word,” Ban-yaro said, as though the silence were his fault. His dark face was slack with weariness, his violet eyes shadowed. “I’m monitoring every possible frequency, I’ve diverted as much power as I can to the tracking station, and I’ve tasked the central unit to a triple-redundancy voiceprint search with a plus or minus variation of fifty. If Obi-Wan and Anakin are trying to reach us, I’ll hear them. If their signal’s been diverted or degraded, I’ll find it. But if you want my absolutely honest opinion—”
“Always, Ban-yaro,” he said, frowning.
“I think they’ve gone dark. And I think we need to trust that they will find a way to communicate with us as soon as they can. Unless—” Ban-yaro shook his head. “But you don’t think they’re dead, do you?”
It was a statement, not a question. As befitted a communications expert, Ban-yaro was a highly attuned, highly sensitive Jedi. “No. In trouble only,” Yoda replied.
Ban-yaro’s lips pinched. “And that’s bad enough. Have no fear, Master Yoda. This will stay between us. I’m using a dedicated private console for my search.”
“Your discretion I trust completely, Ban-yaro. And agree with your plan of action I do. Alert me you will when contact our missing Jedi make, even if with the Supreme Chancellor I am.”
Hands folded before him, Ban-yaro nodded. “Yes, Master.”
From the communications center Yoda made his way down to the lowest levels of the Temple, where the Alderaanian biochemist labored to find a defense against Dooku’s bioweapon. A good man, Tryn Netzl. Of course that was to be expected; he was Organa’s friend, after all.
So engrossed was the scientist in his work, he didn’t notice at first that he was no longer alone. And when he did finally realize, he nearly tripped over himself with surprise.
“Master Yoda! How long have—when did you—” Netzl tossed datapad and stylus to his bench and dragged his forearm across his face. This evening his shirt was striped black and white, his trousers were electric purple, his socks vibrant pink, and his clogs sun yellow. His long pale hair had mostly escaped its braiding, and his eyes—eerily emerald now—blazed in a hawkish face grown thinner in alarmingly little time.
“Doctor Netzl. Come, I have, to see how you progress.”
Half laughing, Netzl flattened his hands to his face. “Oh. You know.” His shaking voice was muffled. “Slowly.”
Besides Netzl, Bant’ena Fhernan had recommended three other scientists who possessed the skills for this daunting task. If what he sensed from Organa’s friend was no exaggeration, perhaps it was time to consider an alternative approach.
“Doctor Netzl,” he said sternly, and rapped his gimer stick to the laboratory floor. “A question I will ask you and answer honestly you must.”
Netzl lowered his hands, blinking. “Sorry? What?”
“Assistance do you require to complete your work here?”
“Assistants?” Netzl shook his head. “No. I don’t like working with lab assistants. I spend half of my time explaining what I’m doing and—oh. Wait. That’s not what you meant, is it?”
“No. It is not.”
Netzl dug his knuckles into his eyes and pressed hard. “Sorry, Master Yoda. I’m a bit tired.” He let his hands drop by his sides, then shoved them into the frayed pockets of his lab coat. “No. Thank you. I appreciate the offer but I don’t need any outside help.”
“Sure are you, Doctor, that out of misplaced pride you do not speak?”
Tryn Netzl’s pointed chin lifted. “Quite sure. Because all I care about is saving lives. And no matter how technically proficient those other scientists Fhernan named might be, they have different priorities. But you know that already, Master Yoda.”
He did. The Force had told him quite plainly that this odd human was the man they needed to defeat Dooku and his henchman Durd. But even so…
<
br /> “Close to an antidote are you at this moment, Doctor Netzl?”
His pale face flushed, Netzl turned away. “I don’t know how to answer that. It always feels like you’re a million parsecs from success, right up to the instant when everything falls into place.”
Yoda rapped his gimer stick on the floor again. “Answer me precisely, you should. On your success countless innocent lives depend.”
“Goddess below, Master Yoda,” Netzl said raggedly. “You think I don’t know that? But I can only tell you what I told Bail: I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise you a thing.” Breathing hard, he leaned a fist against his lab bench and let it take his body’s full, sagging weight. “This toxin’s formula is a tricky beast. It has a branched, quadruple-helixed molecular matrix that’s specifically designed to resist any kind of disruptive agent. Yes, there are individual components that I can neutralize. That I have neutralized. It’s just—” Netzl’s other fist thumped the bench. “I’m missing something. If I can just work out what it is, see what I’m not seeing, then—”
“And convinced you are that no other eyes but yours should look?”
Netzl hunched over the lab bench. “I know it seems like I’m being stubborn and territorial…” He turned his head, far enough to reveal one wide, tormented green eye. “But yes. I’m convinced. All I need is a little more time.”
Sighing again, feeling the weight of his years keenly, Yoda rested his chin on his chest. “The gift of time mine to give you is not, Doctor. In enemy hands does that gift lie.”
“I know,” Netzl said. “But don’t worry. I’ll get it. Every problem has a solution. All you have to do is look at it in exactly the right way.”
And that declaration was a kind of promise, born of fear and a quiet desperation. This was a good man. A man to trust and leave alone to his difficult work. Only—
“No use to us or anyone will you be, Doctor Netzl, if collapsed you are from lack of rest and food,” Yoda said sternly. “Trust you, can I, to take care of yourself? Or like a child must I treat you and send over a nurse?”
Netzl pushed away from the lab bench and, bemused, stared down at him. “You sound like my grandmother.”
For the third time Yoda struck the floor with his gimer stick. “Then a wise woman she is. And both of us you will heed.”
“Master,” said Netzl, and clasped his hands to bow, “I’m fine. But thank you. I truly do appreciate your concern.”
He nodded. “And appreciate do I your good heart and hard work. Our senior healer will I send to you. Ease your body and mind Vokara Che will.”
And without giving the scientist a chance to argue further, he turned and left the lab.
Because he was Yoda, his float chair was stopped over and over again as he made his way to the upper levels of the Temple. Padawans and younglings and Jedi Knights all knew they could approach him for advice and he would listen.
Though scores of Jedi had been lost on Geonosis, and scores more now served in the theater of war, the lives of those residing in the Temple, or visiting, continued. There were younglings to cherish and teach, older students to challenge and assess. There were the ill and wounded to care for and healers to train. And of course there were still countless civilian disputes to settle, as well as research to conduct and knowledge to accumulate and safeguard.
Sometimes—particularly when he was the only Council member resident in the Temple—the sheer weight of his calling threatened to flatten him. That was why he wanted Mace Windu released from his current assignment. He keenly felt his friend’s absence.
With a dozen questions answered and a dozen more small problems solved, he at last reached his austere private chamber. Blessedly alone, he activated his personal holoimager and initiated a comm signal.
“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Mace said, upon hearing of Palpatine’s desire that he stay indefinitely on Kothlis. “The interim government’s very nervous. This attack coming after the attempt on Bothawui—the ruling council’s convinced Grievous will come back to finish what he started.”
“Hmmm.” Seated on his meditation pad, Yoda rubbed his chin. “Sense that as a probability, do you?”
Mace didn’t answer for quite some time. “It disturbs me to admit this, but I’m having trouble sensing anything right now,” he said at last, his face somber. “Partly that’s because of the general unease and upheaval in the local population—”
“—and partly because the dark side keeps the future hidden,” Yoda finished for him, sighing. “Your concerns I share. Similar difficulties am I experiencing myself.”
“Yet you still don’t think it’s time to warn the Senate?”
“No. No,” he said, as close to alarm as he ever permitted himself to come. “More important than ever it is that the Senate does not know. Not until we have unmasked the identity of the Sith Lord can we reveal the extent of the dark side’s interference.”
Slowly, Mace nodded. “I’ll be guided by you on that. But regarding my situation—you did make it clear to Palpatine that my continued presence on Kothlis isn’t helping with the greater war effort?”
“Told him I did. Agree to deny the Kothlis government’s request to keep you there he would not. Insist on your return I will—but not yet.”
Because the last thing he needed right now was a conflict with Palpatine. Once the crisis on Lanteeb was resolved—then would he fight the Supreme Chancellor for Mace’s return. Fight… and win.
“And everything else is all right? You seem a little—distracted.”
More than anything he wanted to confide his fears for Obi-Wan and Anakin to his friend. But some deep instinct warned him to keep the news to himself for now. Not because he couldn’t trust Mace, but because he was so aware of the dark side’s increasing menace. Some things were simply best kept secret.
“No,” he said. “All is well, Master Windu.”
The look on Mace’s face was skeptical, but he didn’t push. And then something out of holocam range caught his attention. He looked away, nodded, and looked back again.
“Yoda, I’m needed elsewhere. But you know where to find me if I can be of help.”
“Indeed I do,” Yoda said, and disconnected the comm. Then, before he could think about organizing a light supper, his apartment door chimed.
It was Taria Damsin.
His spirits sank, seeing her. “Master Damsin—”
“I’m sorry, Master Yoda,” she said, not sounding sorry at all: defiant as only the dying could be. “But I need to talk to you. A few minutes. Please.”
He could deny her. Perhaps he should. But he couldn’t bring himself to disappoint her.
“Very well,” he said. “A few minutes I have to spare.”
She sat comfortably cross-legged on the second meditation pad in his room; the disease had yet to turn her bones to chalk. Her beautiful hair, tamed in a tidy braid, lay over her shoulder. Discarding his gimer stick he sat opposite her, just as comfortable, and lifted his hand slightly so she knew she might speak.
“Obi-Wan’s in trouble,” she said baldly. “Something’s gone very wrong. And if I can feel it, then I know you can, too. Send me to Lanteeb, Master. I know I can help.”
He shook his head. “Impossible that is, Taria. More than likely the Separatists on Lanteeb on high alert have been placed. Doubtful it is that their security you could breach.”
“Master Yoda—” Leaning forward, her topaz eyes hot with intent, she pressed her fists to her knees. “We both know I’m one of the best shadows in the Temple. I can find him. I can find them. And whatever trouble they’re in, I can help get them out of it. Please. We can’t just leave them there.”
“Taria…” Profoundly troubled, Yoda considered her with a half-lidded gaze. “One of the Temple’s best shadows you were. No longer is that true.”
Nothing showed outwardly, but he felt her wounded flinch through the Force. “You’re right,” she said, her voice taut. “But I’m good enough. There are some thi
ngs you don’t forget, Master Yoda. Shadowplay is one of them. Please let me do this. Or are you going to pretend that we can afford to lose him?”
“Value does every Jedi have, Taria. To place one above the rest is not the Jedi way.”
A flash of derision in her glowing eyes. “I’m not talking about accolades and empty praise. I’m talking about—well, you know what I’m talking about. Obi-Wan’s not an ordinary Jedi.” Her eyebrows lifted. “Or did you think I meant Anakin Skywalker?”
Very interesting. “Explain what you mean I think you must, Master Damsin.”
She had the knack of sitting perfectly still and letting the Force flow through her like blood. He remembered her as a small child, almost too old to begin Jedi training. But the Force had glowed so brightly within her that she’d been accepted. And her service to the Order had been just as bright until she was blighted. Now her light was growing dim. Unexpected grief struck him. He had outlived so many Jedi. He should be used to this. And yet…
“I honestly don’t remember when I first realized, or understood,” she said, her voice soft, her sharp face soft, too. “Maybe I always did. Maybe I was born knowing it. But even when it seemed he’d completely lost his way—made those dreadful mistakes over Melida/Daan—I knew Obi-Wan would come back to us, Master Yoda. I knew his fate lay with the Jedi. And I know that somehow all our fates are in his hands.”
How easy it would be to wave aside her words as the fancies of a desperately ill woman. But above all things he held truth to be sacred, so he had no choice but to nod.
“Fated Obi-Wan is, Taria,” he said quietly. “Fated, too, is Anakin. Entwined their lives were destined to be. Brought together by the Force they were. Protected by the Force they are. To safety will it bring them when the time is right.”
And now Taria trembled. “Is that true?” she whispered. “Have you seen it, Master Yoda?”
He didn’t discuss his Force visions with any Jedi outside the Council. And he certainly wasn’t about to mention his ongoing struggle with the dark side. “My permission to leave the Temple you have sought, Master Damsin. My permission to leave the Temple you have not received. Accept my decision you must.”
