by Karen Miller
A breath caught in her throat, and she blinked hard. Then she bowed her head. “Thank you for seeing me, Master Yoda.”
He nodded without comment, and that was her dismissal.
But at his door she hesitated, then turned. “You might as well know that Ahsoka’s felt trouble, too. She’s got enormous potential, Master. If her precious Skyguy’s not back soon, Padawan or not, she’s going to kick up a fuss.”
Ah, yes. Ahsoka. Another soul destined to temper Anakin’s steel. But Padawan Tano, like Taria Damsin, would have to content herself with trust. As for himself… alone again he closed his eyes and opened his weary mind to the Force.
Show me Anakin. Show me Obi-Wan. Safe from harm I would see them.
But what he saw, at long last, only filled him with dismay.
It took Palpatine half an hour to woo the Shahmistra of J’doytzin III, and by the end of it he thought his face would crack from smiling. As a small personal reward he promised himself that His Illustriousness would be among the first to experience retribution from the forces of a galaxy united under the Sith.
The meeting concluded, able at last to cast the Supreme Chancellor aside, Sidious stood on the balcony of his sumptuous apartment, soothing his temper with the Coruscant night. Day by day he could feel the darkness building, feel the light side’s pitiful, mewling retreat. No wonder Yoda could no longer read the future: he had nurtured the dark side here until the light side’s overthrow was almost complete.
Free now to ponder the vexing question of Anakin, he opened his mind to the dark side’s vortex.
Where are you, my young friend? My apprentice-in-waiting? Where has Yoda sent you… and why is the little troll afraid?
He searched and searched, but Anakin was elusive. Merely a shadow on the far edge of sight. Try as he might, he could not bring the boy any closer. Then he sought for Kenobi, but Qui-Gon’s inconvenient apprentice was equally hard to find. What he did sense, cold and clear and unequivocal, was trouble surrounding Dooku.
The Count knew better than to keep his Master waiting. He answered his comm after three chimes, his holoimage staticky with distance and the vagaries of space.
“My lord Sidious,” Dooku said, more than usually deferential. “How may I serve you?”
“By confessing your failure, Tyranus,” he snapped. “And explaining how you intend to rectify your mistake.”
Dooku gasped. “Lord Sidious, there is no failure. At least—it is true the government of Umgul has weakened in its resolve to join us, but—”
“What?” It had been a long and irritating day, so he surrendered himself to the luxury of rage. “Weakened? Tyranus, you assured me you had them eating out of your hand!”
Dooku dropped to one knee, his silver head bent low. “My lord, I do not know—yet—what has happened. But I have an appointment tomorrow with Protector Chanso-ba. I will be able to read him then, and learn who has dared to interfere with our plans.”
“See you that do,” Sidious said. “Umgul’s revolt is required so that other systems are emboldened to join them and further weaken the Senate.” With a deep, shuddering breath he leashed his temper. “And what of the Project? Is Durd’s scientist on track?”
“She is, my lord,” said Dooku. “The weapon will soon be ready to deploy.”
A tickle in the back of his mind made him pause. “You’re sure of that?”
“Yes, my lord. Durd promises that’s the case and he would not dare lie to me. He knows the punishment if he does.”
There was no question Dooku believed it—so he would need to be content with the belief, for the moment.
But I am counting the days until the old fool is but a memory… and I have a worthier apprentice to stand by my side.
He gave Dooku a sharp nod. “Very well. You will inform me the moment the weapon is completed. And you will make sure the Umgul Cabinet votes to join the Separatists. Do I make myself clear, Lord Tyranus?”
Durd wasn’t the only one who understood the price of failure. Now Dooku’s forehead was resting on his bended knee. “My lord Sidious, I hear you and I shall obey.”
“Good,” he said, then severed the connection.
And after that stood long in the sweet night, drinking in the dark.
Chapter Seven
It took Obi-Wan and Anakin nearly two hours to thoroughly explore Torbel, mainly because they were the object of much interest and surprise. Though harsh times had bruised its inhabitants’ spirits, they still challenged the strangers wandering their streets, the animal pastures, the central artesian well, the common food store and mostly empty poultry barn, the schoolroom, the machinery workshop, the antiquated power plant, the storm-shield generators, the locked buildings whose purpose wasn’t immediately apparent, and the junkyard where dead groundcars and antigrav floaters were laid to rest and rust. Interestingly, there was no human graveyard. It could be these people cremated their dead.
They told only four villagers the sad tale of Yavid and Markl’s drought-ruined farm, their flight to the beast-infested Core, and how they hoped for a better life now they’d returned to Lanteeb. After that the story spread of its own accord and soon they found themselves confirming their history instead of explaining it.
“Just like Mos Espa’s slave quarter,” Anakin said under his breath. “Everybody knows everybody else and nothing much stays secret.”
Obi-Wan nudged him with an elbow. Not now.
They’d accumulated a gaggle of children, who seemingly had nothing better to do than tag along in the newcomers’ wake, giggling and whispering and kicking a soggily inflated synthafibe ball. Their ringleader was a girl of perhaps eleven or twelve seasons; skinny in a patched shift dress, barefoot, with brown eyes that were older than Teeba Jaklin’s. She wore a red braided bracelet about her bony left wrist, and her sun-streaked dark hair had been hacked raggedly to chin length. She didn’t play with the ball like the other children, only watched from the sidelines and growled when things got too rough. And when she wasn’t watching her little tribe she was watching Torbel’s newcomers from beneath lowered eyelashes, her lips pursed in a thoughtful way that made them both think of Yoda.
Having worked their way around the village, finding nothing to wake their uneasily sleeping sense of alarm, Obi-Wan and Anakin returned to the beaten-dirt square and the charter house. Its doors were open now and a woman who had to be Teeba Brandeh stood on the broad step, hands on her narrow hips, watching the children scatter across the square to play a proper game of kickball.
Grinning, without bothering to ask if he might, or if it were wise, or if they had the time to spare, so independent these days, Anakin jogged to join them. After a moment’s amazed hesitation the children welcomed him with squeals of delight, rough-and-tumbled him into their midst and made him one of their own.
Obi-Wan shook his head.
“He’s nice,” said the girl with the bracelet and the ragged hair, wandering over to stand beside him. “Don’t be cross with him, Teeb Yavid.”
He glanced down at her. “You know my name?”
“I’ve got ears.”
“Yes. I see that. Two of them. And what makes you think I’m cross?”
That earned him a derisive look. “I’m not a blind one neither. You can smile all you like, Teeb. Underneath it you’re cross.”
Well, well, well. Idly, Obi-Wan stretched out his senses and straightaway felt the potential in this child. What a pity she was half grown and could never be a Jedi.
“I’m Greti,” she said. “I don’t have sibbers or a da. My mam’s Bohle. She hurt her hand.”
Bohle. One of the miners he and Anakin were replacing. “I’m sorry to hear that, Greti. How did she hurt it?”
“In the refinery,” said the girl, her brows pulled tight. “If you work in there you got to have a care for your hands, Teeb. And if you work in the mine you got to have a care for all. Even your toes, boots or no boots. Teeb Jyml lost his toes, once, and he was wearing boots. But he’s de
ad now. The years got him.”
Her matter-of-factness moved him. “Will your mother’s hand be all right?”
Greti shrugged. “Don’t think so, Teeb. I think it’s set to go poison on her.”
“But—” Gathering his thoughts, disciplining himself, he watched Anakin scoop up one small excited boy, too young to kick the ball, and zoom him overhead like a fighter chasing a vulture droid. The boy nearly sickened himself with laughing. “Greti, are you saying—”
“Could be the convoy might take us to ’tibba, when it comes. There’s a medcenter there, I heard once,” the girl said. “Only if we have to pay, that could be a trouble.”
Obi-Wan frowned. He and Anakin had money kept safe in their shirts’ shielded pockets. They wouldn’t miss it.
Or I could try to heal Bohle myself.
Except that would jeopardize his cover, wouldn’t it? Of course, there was a chance he might be able to hide his tracks. Not heal the girl’s mother completely, only nudge her body in the right direction—
But no. It was simply too dangerous. And how could he in good conscience take Anakin to task for his impetuosities in one breath, and in the next indulge one of his own? Even in a good cause?
“I’m very sorry, Greti,” he said, feeling a twist beneath his ribs. “I hope your mother gets better.”
Greti stared at him, curious, and touched her sun-browned hand to his dirty sleeve. “You are sorry, aren’t you? You’re a nice man, too.”
On the steps of the charter house, Teeba Brandeh clapped her hands. “You children, you get along now!” she bellowed, her deep voice carrying like a marketplace spruiker. “You’re wanted for chores and schooling!”
Greti sighed. “I hope you like mining, Teeb Yavid. I hope you think to stay.”
He had to force a smile. “Nothing’s writ in stone, Greti. We’ll see.”
Without looking back at him the girl skipped across the bare dirt to gather her tribe and chivvy them to where they were meant to be. They wandered off, reluctant, waving good-bye to their new Teeb friend, little faces alight with their few moments of pleasure.
“What?” said Anakin, coming back. “What’s that look for?”
He glowered. “You know perfectly well.”
“Relax, Obi-Wan,” Anakin said. “Trust me, the fastest way to these people’s hearts is through their children. Get the children on our side and the adults will welcome us.”
“So that was merely a cynical exercise in the manipulation of a local populace?”
“Oh, no,” said Anakin, grinning. “It was fun too.”
May the Force give me strength. “And that business with the boy? Because when I said no heavy lifting I—”
Anakin’s amusement vanished. “He wasn’t heavy. These younglings are skin and bone. I look at them and—” He clenched his jaw. “Anyway. We’ve poked around and found nothing to worry us and we’ve broken the ice. So probably we should report to Rikkard.”
Heading to the mine, where they could see a bustle of activity, feeling the sun’s heat build as it climbed higher in the milky blue sky, they passed a pitted, bashed-up piece of electronics equipment wired to a tip-tilted metal pole.
“It’s a theta monitor,” Obi-Wan said, stopping to look. “In working order, despite appearances.”
“Needle’s in the green,” said Anakin. “Good. One less thing to worry about.” He tapped the gauge once, just to be sure. “You ever ride out a theta storm?”
Obi-Wan shook his head. “No.”
“Me, neither,” said Anakin. “And that suits me just fine.”
“Qui-Gon survived one, his first year as a Jedi Knight,” he said as they moved on. “He was lucky. Three others with him didn’t get to shelter in time. They took days to die, in excruciating agony.”
Anakin looked at him. “You know, sooner or later you’re going to tell me a happy story, I just know you are.”
Before he could defend himself, a warning siren blared from the mine. A moment later they felt the ground vibrate, faint shudders whispering through the planet far below.
“Huh,” said Anakin. “How deep was that, do you think?”
“Deep,” he said, touched by foreboding. “It feels like they’re hollowing the planet.”
A second siren sounded, and moments later a line of laden antigrav floaters emerged from the mine, heading for the refinery. Windowless, its tall, cylindrical ventilation shafts belched dirty greenish gray smoke.
Anakin coughed as an errant breeze blew the acrid discharge into their faces. “Stang, that’s filthy stuff,” he said, rasping. “I hope Jaklin’s right about her pills or we’ll be—” And then he slowed, his sudden unease surging through the Force. “Obi-Wan…” He shook his head, coughing again. “That’s a lot of damotite.”
Each heavily burdened antigrav floater was being guided to the refinery by a villager wrapped head-to-toe in stifling protective gear. Frowning, Obi-Wan counted six. Yes indeed, that was a lot of damotite. And it was only a fraction of the quota required for the next shipment to Lantibba.
“Look,” Anakin said. “I know we need to lay low until the convoy gets here, which means blending in with the locals, but—Obi-Wan, we can’t help Durd make his bioweapon. We just can’t.”
Anakin’s distress was a thin, sour note in the Force. “What are you suggesting?” Obi-Wan said gently. “That we sabotage the mine?”
“And the refinery,” said Anakin. “That way we can be certain Durd won’t get his hands on any more damotite for his weapon.”
“Anakin—” He ran a hand down his face. I knew we’d be having this argument sooner or later. “Were you not listening to Teeba Jaklin? If this village fails to meet the government-mandated quota it will have its food supply cut short. You saw how empty the common storehouse is. And with their crops unripe these villagers are already living from hand to mouth. I’d have thought that you of all people would appreciate the gravity of their situation.”
Anakin’s lips thinned. “Of course I appreciate it. But we can’t—”
“Yes, Anakin, we can,” he said, watching a groundcar approach them from the mine. “And we must. What we do here will change nothing. Durd’s already in possession of enough damotite to mass-produce his toxin. I know the idea of providing him with more is distasteful, but you’ll have to grit your teeth and bear it. Remember it won’t be for long.”
“Yes, but—”
“Anakin, no,” he said. “If we do anything to arouse Rikkard’s suspicions our mission will fail, which will help Durd a great deal more than us hacking a few bucketloads of damotite out of the ground. And what I don’t understand is why I have to explain that to you!”
Anakin turned away, his gloved prosthetic fingers flexing and unflexing as though he desperately wanted something to hit. The Force trembled with his anger and frustration, chaotic emotions he should have long since learned how to control.
That I thought he did control. This mission has him quite disordered.
“I know,” Anakin said, resentful. “You’re right. I just—blast it.”
The approaching groundcar was so close now, Obi-Wan could see who was driving. Stang. “I do understand how you feel, Anakin. But we have to be smart about this.”
Anakin’s anger gave way to rueful affection. “You never give up, do you?”
“On you?” He allowed himself a small, answering smile. “No. Never.”
“Teeb Yavid! Teeb Markl!”
That was Rikkard, shouting from the groundcar. From the look on his face, it seemed he wasn’t happy at all. They exchanged resigned glances and hurried to meet it.
“Teeb Rikkard, you have a wonderful village!” Obi-Wan said, hunching a little and letting his hands flutter in an innocent excitement. “It’s so friendly, so well organized. Little treasures, the children.”
Scowling behind the wheel of his idling machine, Rikkard ignored the fulsome praise. “Are you suntouched, Teebs? Do you know how long you’ve dawdled up here while there’s
work and more work waiting down in the mine? You say you want to live in Torbel, you say you want to prove your worth. All you prove is I’m suntouched to hear you!”
“The fault’s mine, Teeb,” said Anakin quickly. “I got to gaggling with your young ones. My cousin was just rousting me for it. We’ll work every hour that’s left in the day. Don’t be thinking twice about us, Teeb. Please.”
Rikkard gnawed at his lower lip, his scars livid in the sunshine. Then he jerked his chin. “Climb in back. You’ll get today to prove I shouldn’t pack you out of this place.”
“Thank you,” said Obi-Wan, giving Anakin a little push. “You’re a good man, Teeb.”
Angrily silent, Rikkard drove them to the mine, then led them through its elaborately shielded entrance and down a flight of enclosed stairs to the first underground level. There he rummaged in a huge locker, pulled out two bulkily protective outerwear suits, and waited impatiently as they fastened themselves inside. The suits stank of other men’s and women’s labor, so heavy they woke every quiescent cut and bruise. Then he gave them synthafibe overboots, gloves and stout, battered helmets, and they put those on, too.
“You don’t take them off,” Rikkard said sternly, leading them to a metal cage on a pulley that was poised above the entrance to a narrow, plunging shaft. Faint but definite sounds of miners and machinery floated out of it, and through the soles of their boots they could feel a steady, distant thrum. “Especially not now, for we loosened a new chamber and there’s chunk damotite enough to crush your skulls.”
“Is that what happened to you?” said Anakin as they climbed inside the cage’s insubstantial metal fretwork.
Rikkard’s ungloved fingers tapped over his scars. “It did.”
“You’re not helmeted now.”
“I’m back to the refinery when you’re settled,” said Rikkard, clanging closed the cage door. “I’ll not be down here for long.”
