by Karen Miller
“Yeah,” said Anakin, scowling now. “Just in time for everyone to drop dead from damotite poisoning. Obi-Wan, this thing hunting us—”
“I don’t know. But as soon as this storm clears we’ve got to get out of here.”
“And go where?”
“I don’t know that, either,” he said, fighting the soft touch of a dangerous fear. “Any suggestions?”
“Obi-Wan…” Anakin dragged his forearm across his filthy, sweaty face. “We’re going to have to invent a new word for the kind of trouble we’re in.”
“Perhaps we can have a small competition.”
“And the winner gets to live? That sounds like a plan.”
Despite everything, Obi-Wan felt himself smile. Things could always be worse. I could be stuck here on my own. “Anakin, I must get to Arrad. There’s a chance I can save his life.”
“Then go,” said Anakin. “It’s not like we have to be secret Jedi anymore.”
“Can you go to the power plant? Jaklin says Rikkard and Devi are there, trying to make sure we don’t have another grid surge. They could use your expertise.”
Swaying on his feet, Anakin nodded. “Sure. Does Rikkard know his son’s injured?”
“Jaklin says he does.”
“Do you want me to tell him you’re—”
“No. Don’t say anything,” he said. “I don’t want to get his hopes up. I might not be able to help Arrad at all.”
“If anyone can, you can,” said Anakin. And because he was Anakin, and so tired, and had only ever pretended to learn that lesson of distance, gave him a swift embrace. “We’ll get through this, Obi-Wan. It’s what we do, remember? We survive catastrophe, even if it’s by the skin of our teeth.”
Yes, we do. I just wish we didn’t get quite so much practice at it.
Refusing to worry, he made his way across the village square to the sick house as Anakin headed for the power plant. There he found Teeba Brandeh and another woman, short and broad and busy with bandages. She had to be Teeba Sufi, who’d once worked in a hantibba medcenter.
Thank the Force for small mercies.
Sufi turned, hearing his boot heels on the wooden floor. “What do you want, Teeb? Are you hurt? If you’re not bad you’ll have to wait. It’s only bad cases we’re treating here.”
He could see that. There was Arrad, a motionless heap on one cot. And sitting by another was the little girl Greti. That must be her mother, then. Bohle. The woman was long and thin and fever-restless beneath her blanket. He counted another eight injured villagers in the room, which smelled of antiseptic and urine and fresh blood and fear.
Greti sat a little straighter. “That’s Teeb Yavid. He’s my friend.”
“I’ve come to offer my assistance, Teeba Sufi,” he said, closing the door behind him. “Jaklin told me Arrad was sore hurt in the explosion.”
“You tried to get him out, I’m told,” said Teeba Sufi, raking him head-to-toe with a fierce look that reminded him piercingly of Vokara Che. “Got most everyone else out, too. That was well done, Teeb Yavid.”
Obi-Wan crossed the floor to Arrad’s cot and stared down at the unconscious young man. Both arms and his right leg were roughly splinted. A red-soaked bandage was wrapped around his head. Bruising blotched the right side of his face and his bare chest was punctured in a score of places, scraped and bruised to a raw, weeping mess.
Stang. This is bad.
Dropping to a crouch, he laid fingers lightly on Arrad’s wrist. The boy’s pulse was racing, trying to outrun death. “Actually, Teeba Sufi—it’s not Yavid,” he said, very softly. “My name is Obi-Wan Kenobi.”
Teeba Sufi’s surprise rippled through the Force. “And you’re a doctor?” she said, uncertain.
He turned to look at the women and saw little Greti staring, her old eyes so wide. “No. I’m a Jedi. And I believe I can help this man… if you’ll let me.”
Chapter Ten
“JEDI?” TEEBA SUFI STEPPED BACK, HER FACE ABRUPTLY STIFF with fear. “Greti—go. Get out. Find Teeba Jaklin and—”
“Teeba Jaklin knows!” Obi-Wan said quickly. “Please—I’m not here to hurt Arrad or anyone else. I truly want to help, if I can.”
Teeba Brandeh, just as surprised, touched her companion’s arm. “He ran into the refinery to get people out, Sufi. He tried to save Arrad.”
Sufi turned on her. “He’s Jedi, Brandeh! You know what they are, you know what they’re capable of. They enslave minds. They turn free men and women into beasts for the Republic! Look at him! Hardly a mark on him, and Arrad broken to pieces!”
Teeba Brandeh hesitated.
The child Greti stood. “I don’t know anything about Jedi, but I think Teeb Yav—Teeb Kenobi—is a good man.” She thumped her chest with one small fist. “I think that in here. Where I feel things.” She hesitated, then took a small step toward him. “Teeb Kenobi…”
He found a smile for her. “Obi-Wan.”
“Obi-Wan.” Her answering smile was shy and trembling with hope. “Can you heal my mother?”
“Greti!” Teeba Sufi rounded on the girl. “Hold your foolish tongue, child. Bohle is my business, I’ll not have her meddled with by—”
Greti lifted her chin. “No, Teeba, Bohle is my business. She’s my blood and I’m hers and we’re all there is.” She pointed. “Chance be he might heal her. Can you do that? You haven’t so far.”
“Listen to us, Greti,” Teeba Sufi said, cajoling. “You love your mother. We know. But this man’s not to be trusted. He lied to us. Came among us calling himself Yavid, calling himself Lanteeban. Him and that cousin.” She whipped around. “Are you that much not a liar? Do Jedi have cousins?”
“As Jedi count such things, Teeba, then Anakin is family,” Obi-Wan said carefully. “We did not come here to harm you. We did not come here on purpose at all, and when the storm clears we’ll leave you. But until then I ask you, please, let me help.”
Ignoring Sufi and Brandeh, Greti came forward and took his hand. “Help me,” she whispered. “I don’t want Bohle to die.”
“Greti—”
“No, Teeba Sufi,” the child said, tugging. “I speak for her. I want this. And if he heals her, no harm done, then he can help Arrad.”
Letting Greti pull him to her mother’s unquiet side, Obi-Wan looked back at Sufi and Brandeh. “I am sworn to oppose evil and protect the innocent. You have my word, Teeba Sufi, I’ll not harm your patient.”
“Your word?” Sufi spat on the dirt-smudged floor. “What’s the word of a proven liar worth? You claim you can help Bohle? Help her and I’ll think twice on you. But if you can’t, then Jedi or no Jedi, Torbel will have its revenge.”
He nodded, accepting her challenge, then dropped to the stool beside the sick woman’s cot. “Greti…” He held the child’s hand a little more tightly. “You know I can’t promise anything.”
The child’s fear-shadowed eyes appraised him. “You’ll do your best, Teeb?”
“My very best. I swear it.”
“I believe you,” she whispered, then let go of his hand and sat cross-legged on the floor. “I do.”
The child had powerful Jedi instincts. “You could help her, Greti. Let her know you’re here. Let her know you love her.”
Tears tipped onto her sunken cheeks. Nodding, she wrapped her small fingers around her mother’s unhurt hand and raised it to her lips for a kiss. The simple gesture was such a profound declaration of love Obi-Wan had to busy himself with unwrapping the bandage covering Bohle’s injury.
It was fearful. Swollen to nearly three times its normal size, Bohle’s left hand was garish green and livid purple around a deep, putrescent laceration. The wound’s primitive stitches had burst, and it wept stinking pus. Fever had turned her blood to fire, scorching her skin and drying out her too-thin body. Poisonous infection streaked up her forearm and past her elbow, heading unchecked toward her shoulder. There were ghastly greenish tracings, damotite’s fingerprints in her flesh.
Obi-Wan
felt a surge of misgiving. He had no formal training, no healing crystal to call on. All he had was desperation and a certain affinity for this work.
Oh, Vokara Che. How I wish you were here.
There was no use thinking of how tired he was already, no point in dwelling on all the things he didn’t have or know. This woman was dying. She was Greti’s only kin.
And if I can help her, they’ll let me help all the others. What better way is there to show them the truth about the Jedi?
Fingertips resting on Bohle’s fever-heated arm, he closed his eyes and let the Force take him under. The Force in Greti quivered in response. He breathed in. Breathed out. Found his precarious center.
“Greti,” he whispered. “Think of your mother’s hand unharmed. Can you do that for me? Can you see it in your mind? The way it was before the accident?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice small. “I can see it.”
“Hold that image, Greti. Relax your body. Release your fears. Feel yourself floating in a warm, safe place. See your mother’s hand. See her smiling instead of suffering.”
Restless, breathing harshly, Bohle tossed her head on the pillow, her pain like a wildfire. Obi-Wan pressed his palm against her cheek and gently, inexorably, imposed his will upon her.
Hush, Bohle. Be at peace. Don’t fight me. Feel your daughter beside you. Feel her love. Let go of your terror. Let me in… let me in…
With a familiar, warm rush he felt himself plunge deeper into the Force, felt its power flood through him. Never knowing exactly how he did what he did, he made himself a conduit and let its mysterious strength soak into the sick woman’s body. Dimly he heard Greti gasp as the Force stirred ever more strongly within her, instinct guiding her fledgling powers.
A slow, deep shudder racked Bohle head to toe.
Somewhere a woman shouted in protest. “No. Stop. What are you doing? You’re going to kill her. Stop!”
“Have no fear,” he answered dreamily. “No harm is being done.”
He could feel the Force working through Bohle’s sick body, grappling with the rampant infection. And then he was gasping as an echo of her sickness sounded through him, as he became a conduit for her pain. Heat scorched his blood. A vise closed around his skull. His hand burst into a bright and blinding anguish. He heard—felt—Greti whimper.
I’m sorry, Greti, but she needs you. Hold on.
This was a fight as vicious as any battlefield encounter. The infection was his enemy, Bohle’s recovery his goal. Caught up in the struggle, he didn’t care what it cost him, didn’t care that it hurt him. He cared only to win.
Fight with me, Bohle. Don’t give up.
If only he were a true healer. To have that power now, to know he could undo this awful infection as effortlessly as he could deflect a volley of blaster bolts…
Come on, Kenobi. Make her better.
And then he felt it—the shift, the change in Bohle’s blood. It wasn’t a cure, not completely—but it was change enough to give her a fighting chance. Pulling himself free of the Force, he saw that Bohle lay still now, her chest rising and falling slowly and steadily. Then Greti, tears drenching her face, moaned and collapsed across her mother.
Teeba Sufi, with Brandeh beside her, pushed him aside. “Get out of the way, Jedi. I want to know you’ve not harmed her.”
He half tumbled, half slid off the stool and backed away. His left hand still hurt. Bohle’s fever lingered in his blood. Teeba Brandeh scooped Greti into her strong arms and held the child close, letting the little one weep against her shoulder.
On her knees beside the cot, Teeba Sufi felt Bohle’s cool forehead. Then she stared at the partly healed wound in the woman’s hand and the clean, firm flesh of her arm. No trace of that greenish streaking poison remained. The village healer looked up, her brown eyes narrowed.
“She’s mostly mended.”
Obi-Wan nodded. “I know.”
Sufi shifted her gaze to Greti. “What did the child have to do with it?”
“She… loves her mother,” he said, circumspect. “Love can be a powerful force for good, Teeba.”
“Hmmph.” Sufi looked down at Bohle. “You can do this again?”
Oh, may the Force give me strength. “I will do it as often as I need to, Teeba.”
“You’re leaving, you said.”
“You’ll be safer if we go. But in between now and then?” Obi-Wan stared around the sick house, at the cots burdened with the injured. “What skills I have are yours to use.”
Teeba Brandeh snorted, sounding like Yoda. “Then apply them to Arrad, Jedi. He’s in need of your help.”
Yes, Arrad was. He had broken bones and split, spoiled muscle and some kind of growing pressure on his brain. Seated beside the young man’s cot, Obi-Wan felt his courage falter. Oh, Vokara Che. Inspire me, Master. And then, reaching for his dwindling reserves of strength, he plunged himself deeply into the Force.
WATCHING OBI-WAN DRAG HIMSELF back to awareness, Anakin felt a rising fear. Only trained healers were supposed to work on injuries like Arrad’s, and they were meant to use special crystals so they could safely contain and focus their energy. Two experienced healers on the war’s front line had crippled themselves doing what his mentor was trying to do now.
What were you thinking, Obi-Wan? This isn’t your job.
Beside him, Teeb Rikkard hugged his ribs in silent distress. On his other side Teeba Jaklin rocked on her heels.
At long last, Obi-Wan opened his eyes.
“My son,” said Rikkard, pushing forward. “How is my son? Will he live? Have you healed him?”
Obi-Wan dragged a shaking hand down his face and nodded. “Yes, Teeb. He’ll live. He’s not mended entirely—his broken bones are still knitting. But the wound in his head is dealt with, and the bleeding in his belly.” He took a deep breath and let it out hard. “He must stay quiet with Teeba Sufi awhile yet.”
The Teeba came forward with scissors and fresh bandages. “I’ll see he does—Teeb Kenobi.”
Obi-Wan stood, not quite steady. “Is there anyone else here you think is in danger?”
Anakin opened his mouth to protest, but Obi-Wan raised a silencing hand. Teeba Sufi’s frowning gaze traveled over the other occupied cots.
“No,” she said. “There’s pain and little rest, but no death due the others. Not that I can see.” She looked Obi-Wan up and down. “You’ve done enough. It’s rest you need.”
“Soon,” said Obi-Wan. “Teeb Rikkard—”
Rikkard was hovering over Arrad. “What?”
“I must ask you to step outside for a moment, with myself and Anakin and Teeba Jaklin.”
“No. This is my boy,” Rikkard protested. In the sick house’s dull lighting his face was drawn so tight it looked close to tearing. All his knotted scars shone with oil and dirt and sweat. “I’ll not leave him.”
“I’m sorry, Teeb, you must,” said Obi-Wan. Even exhausted, his voice snapped with authority. “It’s village business and you’re the head miner.”
Sufi patted Rikkard’s bowed shoulder. “I’ll sit with him, Teeb. If he stirs I’ll call you.”
“Please, Rikkard,” Teeba Jaklin said. “I can’t decide for Torbel on my own. That’s not right.”
Resentful, Rikkard shrugged Sufi away. “Don’t keep me from him long, Teeb Yavid. Or whatever you call yourself.”
Anakin stared at him. “Teeb Rikkard, you could keep a civil tongue. Master Kenobi just saved your son’s life.”
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan murmured. “Don’t. His tone doesn’t matter.”
It did, but he could argue the point later. Leaving the sick to the care of Teeba Sufi and Teeba Brandeh, they withdrew to the street outside the sick house. Torbel had quieted a lot in the past hour. Flickering lights in the distance spoke of families sheltering in their homes. The mine was emptied. No one walked or drove through the village. The low-throated hum of the generators was the only constant sound. Beyond the plasma shield the theta storm continued to
lash them, an odd light building behind its reddish orange glow. Dawn. The air trapped inside the shield was still tainted with smoke. Still poisoned. Coughing, Anakin tried not to think about that.
“What d’you want to say, Jedi?” Rikkard demanded. “Spit the words out and leave us be.”
Obi-Wan didn’t answer him. “Anakin. The power plant? It’s stable? And the generators—you’re confident no more will blow?”
Confident? Now, that was a bold word. He’d spent the last hour with Rikkard and Devi working like a crazy man to shore up every circuit, every relay, every diode interface and every plasma conduit and junction. Torbel’s power plant made Mos Espa’s look sophisticated. How these people managed to survive out here had become a constant source of amazement to him.
“Devi and Teeb Rikkard say the plant’s holding steady enough,” he said cautiously. “I agree. I don’t think we’ll have another power surge. And we couldn’t find another faulty shield generator. Provided the storm doesn’t last much longer—”
“There’s no knowing when it’ll stop,” said Jaklin. “It’ll pass when it passes. Could be hours. Could be days.”
Great. “Don’t worry. We’ll keep the plant running somehow.”
“So,” said Rikkard, rubbing his eyes. “You’re Jedi. And what does that mean for Torbel? Can you save us from the government when it learns we can’t supply it with enough damotite?”
“No,” said Obi-Wan. “And we can’t be found here when the convoy comes. But before we leave, we need to send a message to the Jedi Temple on Coruscant.”
Rikkard and Jaklin stared at them. “Our comm hub isn’t strong enough to punch a signal that far,” Jaklin said, hostile. “It’s not even strong enough to reach the nearest HoloNet relay.”
“That’s all right,” said Obi-Wan. “We have the means to boost the signal. But—we’ll probably blow your hub doing it.”
“Are you mad?” Rikkard demanded. “Cut us off from Lantibba? From help, if we need it?”
Jaklin was shaking her head. “You can’t expect us to say yes to that.”
