by Karen Miller
“No,” she whispered. “They left.”
“I don’t believe you!” he shouted, and turned to the holotransmitter.
She lunged at him, frantic. “It’s true! They left! They left! I swear it on my life!”
“No,” said Durd, pointing at her beautiful nephews. “You swear it on their lives. But I think you’re lying.”
Again, his fingers fisted in her hair. Her head was dragged back so far and so hard she did think he’d snap her neck. And now she didn’t want him to.
“No no no!” she gabbled, trying to pull his fingers free. “Please no, you’re hurting me! Don’t hurt me and I’ll help you. Don’t hurt them and I’ll give you the Jedi, I swear!”
Leaning down, he breathed foul air into her face. “How?”
“They’re going to call me. On that comlink you found. They took the other one with them.”
“You’re lying!” he shouted—but he wanted to believe her. She could see the need to believe her raging in his eyes. His hatred for her was outstripped only by his fear of Count Dooku.
“I’m not,” she said, tears of pain streaming down her cheeks. “I will give them to you. I’ll test the weapon on them. I’ll do anything you want.”
Hope and greed flared in his eyes. “Anything?”
“Yes. You show me my loved ones every day, General. You show me so I can see it’s not a trick and they’re alive and you’ve not harmed them. Show me that and I will get you your revenge on the Jedi and earn you Count Dooku’s undying trust.”
He stared at her greedily, mouth fallen open, his skin wet with avarice. Unfisting his fingers, he let go of her hair.
“If you are lying, my dear—if this is a trick—I’ll bring those pink bloodsacs here and then I’ll gorge you on their screams.”
“No lies, General,” she whispered, choking. “No tricks.”
Still Durd stared at her. Desperately wanting to believe her promises. Desperately afraid this was a trap.
“Do we have a deal, General?”
Durd nodded, hating her. “We have a deal.”
“Good,” she said, and collapsed facedown on the floor.
The Jedi said they’d protect my family and my friends, but Samsam is dead. So either they lied or they failed. Either way I can’t trust them. I am my loved ones’ only hope. Let the galaxy save itself. I will save who I can.
“Sorry,” said Anakin, as his empty belly rumbled again. “I can’t help it.”
Obi-Wan looked at him. “Try drinking some more water.”
“No, thank you. Lanteeban tap water tastes like pond sludge,” said Anakin, sounding grumpy. “We should’ve brought some of Bant’ena’s mealpacks with us. I mean, she offered. It wouldn’t have been stealing.”
“And carried them how?” He shook his head, sighing. “We’ll be fine, Anakin. You know perfectly well a Jedi can function without food for extended periods.”
“Well, yes, I know we can,” Anakin muttered. “I just don’t want to.” Grunting, he shuffled around a bit under the front counter. “Are you sure there aren’t any biscuits in here? I’m hungry.”
Temper stirred. “Anakin, what precisely are you hoping for? That somehow in the five minutes that have passed since you last asked if I was sure there weren’t any biscuits, biscuits have miraculously manifested themselves?”
“Well,” said Anakin, grasping at straws. “You never know. They could have. That barve Durd miraculously manifested himself. Besides, I’m complaining for a reason. We need to fuel ourselves, Obi-Wan. Being able to scrape by on three mouthfuls every second day is a survival trait. We’re looking at a bit more activity than just surviving. Although that’s pretty much at the top of the list.”
Annoyingly, his former apprentice had a point. The next day or so would see great demands placed upon them. Doubtless they would be using the Force not only to gain access to Durd’s compound for a second time, but afterward to escape it and then escape Separatist-controlled Lanteeb altogether. And using the Force extensively required deep physical reserves—which required adequate nourishment.
“I know,” he said, and shifted around a bit himself, stuck under his wretched desk. “But we’ll be fine.”
Beyond the confines of the boarded-up electronics shop, another new day was stirring. They could hear ground traffic now, and ships thundering out of the spaceport. Soon there’d be foot traffic, too, and more battle droid patrols. They’d have to remain completely silent. One wrong sound might lead to discovery, and death.
Restless, Anakin crawled out from beneath the counter and bounced to his feet. “Toss me the comlink. I want to contact Bant’ena.”
“There’s nothing new to tell her, Anakin.”
Anakin frowned. “We can tell her she hasn’t been forgotten.”
“I’ll tell her,” he said, and activated the link. “Doctor Fhernan. Doctor Fhernan, are you there?”
“Yes, Master Kenobi. I’m here. What’s happening?”
Instead of answering immediately he took a moment to read her, as well as he could. He sensed tension. Fear. A heightened level of anxiety. Of course, she’d lived with intolerable stress for some time now.
“Best I not elaborate, Doctor,” he said, habitually cautious. Unlike Anakin, he was still not ready to fully trust the woman. “Events are in motion. All you need to do is hold tight—and stall working on the Project, if you can. Tell Durd—”
“I don’t need to. He’s gone to see Dooku. But he’ll be back tomorrow. Can you get me out of here tonight? There’ll only be me and the droids here. We might not get another chance. And—and I’m afraid, Master Kenobi. I think Durd’s regretting his decision to keep me alive.”
And that would explain her increased fear and anxiety. He glanced at Anakin, who nodded, his expression fierce. “Yes, Doctor. We can do that. Though it’s only fair to warn you that we might not have a full report on the status of your loved ones.”
“You’ve said you’ll see them safe, Master Kenobi. You’re a Jedi. I trust your word.”
“Do you think there’s a chance Durd has changed his mind and taken the bioweapon formula with him to Dooku?”
“No,” said Dr. Fhernan. “I told him I’d found an instability in the primary chained molecule sequence. He was very angry. He—he—” Her voice broke. “He beat me again. Please, Master Kenobi. Please get me out of here.”
With a muffled curse, Anakin used the Force to pluck the comlink from his grasp. “We will, Bant’ena. We’ll be there after dark. Be ready. Hold on. Can you hold on? It’s nearly over.”
“Yes,” she whispered. She sounded on the verge of tears. “But not for long.”
“It won’t be for long, I promise. We end this tonight.”
As Anakin disconnected the comlink, Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow at him. “Snatching is discourteous.”
Ignoring that, Anakin tossed the comlink back to him. “I was still hoping there’d be a way to take that barve Durd home with us.”
“So was I,” he admitted. “We’ll just have to make him our next mission.”
Anakin grinned fiercely. “That sounds like a plan.”
“Now I suggest we sleep for a few hours. Conserve our energy. We can contact the Temple again later, before we go to retrieve Doctor Fhernan.”
“Sleep?” Anakin groaned. “How do you expect me to sleep when I’m starving to death? Are you sure there aren’t any bis—hey! Don’t do that.”
The last words came out muffled, because he’d used the Force to plaster a sheet of old flimsi invoice across Anakin’s face.
“Hush,” he whispered severely. “Before somebody hears us.”
And having managed the last word, for once, he rolled onto his side—and summoned sleep.
The long Lanteeban day dragged on, unbearably slow. Though they tried to sleep, true rest proved difficult to find. Acutely aware of their precarious position, they kept startling to wakefulness, alerted by passing battle droid patrols or the boom of a departing starship’
s thrusters. Being hungry didn’t help, either. A groundcar collision right outside their hiding place had them sweating. The drivers started fighting, raised voices attracting unwanted attention. Then the spaceport’s MagnaGuards weighed in to the altercation. Soon after that they heard weapons fire and screaming—and then silence, shot through with a woman’s wild weeping. A final round of blasterfire silenced that.
“The same thing’s happening everywhere, you know,” said Anakin in a low voice, once the droids had moved on and it was safe to speak. “Everywhere the Separatists have taken over, people are dying.”
“Yes, they are,” said Obi-Wan, just as quietly. He had himself in hand. He did. Yes, there was grief for that unknown woman and for the three men who’d also died—who had been murdered. A Jedi could feel grief… but a Jedi did not lose himself in grief. That was the difference. “But you must remember, Anakin, that there has to be consolation in the knowledge that we’re saving as many people as we can. It’s just—you know as well as I do, we cannot save everyone. For your own peace of mind I wish you’d find a way to accept that.”
Feeling a death through the Force was never pleasant. Distressed and resentful, Anakin closed his eyes. “How can you ask me to accept it? Our mandate is justice, Obi-Wan. What’s happening now is our fault. We’re to blame for things falling apart.”
“That’s not true, Anakin,” he protested, shocked. “The Jedi are not responsible for Dooku’s turn to the dark side. He chose—”
Anakin’s eyes snapped open. “I’m not talking about Dooku! I’m talking about how the Jedi claim to defend those who can’t defend themselves yet leave so many defenseless people at the mercy of gangsters and slave traders and starvation and poverty.”
“That’s not us, Anakin,” he said wearily. “That’s the Republic. It’s politics. The Jedi do not involve themselves with politics. You know that, too.”
“Then maybe we should,” Anakin retorted. “Maybe if the politicians won’t do what needs to be done, we need to do it. Because somebody needs to. You wonder why people believe the lies Dooku and his cabal tell them? It’s because they’re desperate. The Republic’s abandoned them—or it never cared in the first place. In the end it’s the same thing. The rich stay rich and they make sure the poor stay broken and ignorant in the gutter.”
Obi-Wan stifled a sigh. Oh Anakin. This was about his childhood. Again. About the indelible fingerprints slavery had left on his soul and his psyche. Qui-Gon, did you never once stop to think of that? Did it never occur to you the damage might run too deep? “Anakin—”
Anakin flicked him a frustrated look. “I know you think you understand. I know you want to understand. But if you haven’t lived it, Obi-Wan, you can’t. And you never will.”
They really shouldn’t be talking. Even keeping their voices low almost to whispering, it was dangerous. But if he shut down the conversation now, if he refused to hear what Anakin had to say, he’d pile damage upon damage. And this wasn’t the time to be at odds. Not with so much depending upon them.
Another transport blasted out of the spaceport. The shop’s boarded-up windows rattled. The desktop above his head vibrated, and the counter Anakin curled beneath. A pile of flimsies thudded to the floor, raising dust. Obi-Wan smothered a sneeze in the crook of his elbow.
“Anakin,” he said, when he could trust himself to speak again, “I’ve never said the Republic’s perfect. It’s not. But the Senate—”
“The Senate’s corrupt,” Anakin declared. “It’s been corrupt for years, long before the Trade Federation’s blockade of Naboo. You know that, Obi-Wan. You’ve been lecturing me about the perils of politicians ever since we met.”
“That’s true,” he acknowledged. “But hope isn’t quite lost. Bail’s not corrupt. Neither is Padmé.”
For once, the mere mention of her name didn’t provoke a reaction. “And neither is Palpatine!” Anakin replied hotly. “But that’s three politicians out of more than a thousand. And instead of the Jedi standing up to them, we go along. We do their bidding. We prop them up while their governments exploit the weak and the helpless. How can you tell me that’s right?”
With an effort Obi-Wan held on to his temper. “I never said it was right, Anakin. I deplore it. But at this moment, flawed as it may be, the Galactic Republic is the best system we have. It’s the only system we have. And it’s better than a dictatorship—which is what Dooku is after and what we’re here trying to prevent. If you’re so concerned about galactic injustice, my friend, I suggest you talk to your friend Palpatine. He is the Supreme Chancellor, after all. Presumably he has an interest in preserving the Republic.”
Anakin stared at him, incredulous. “You don’t think he knows the Senate’s rotten? Obi-Wan, he knows. He knows better than anyone. He sees it day in and day out. And if he could fix it he would, but he can’t, because there are too many Senators who like things the way they are. If he had more control over them he could fix what’s wrong. He would fix it. But then people like you would say he was just being a typical politician, grabbing power for its own sake. So you tell me, Obi-Wan. What’s the answer?”
“I don’t know, Anakin,” he said, abruptly so tired, and so dispirited. “All I can tell you is we’re not going to fix the problem while holed up in this abandoned electronics shop, hiding from battle droids and MagnaGuards and Separatist forces. So let’s focus on what we can do, shall we? Which is stop Lok Durd and Dooku from murdering countless innocents with their filthy new weapon.”
“I’m sorry,” Anakin murmured, contrite. “I know it sounds like I think you don’t care. I don’t think that. I don’t.”
And if he says it enough times, will he come to believe it?
But that wasn’t fair. Anakin wasn’t entirely wrong about him. He’d never been a slave. He’d never been beaten for making a mistake. Never crawled beneath threadbare blankets, starving, and fallen asleep with his mother’s tears on his cheeks. He didn’t remember his mother. He’d been raised in the Temple, safe and loved.
I have compassion. I have empathy. What I don’t have are scars.
“See if you can sleep again, Anakin,” he said softly. “I estimate four hours, a little less, until sunset. We can try contacting the Temple again then.”
Anakin nodded. “How late do you want to leave it before we head back to Durd’s compound?”
“As late as we can. The Seps believe their curfew is working. We should take advantage of their complacency.”
“Okay,” said Anakin, and rolled his eyes. “More sleep it is. And with any luck, I’ll dream about biscuits.”
Chapter Twenty
“Ahsoka.”
Startled out of her doze, Ahsoka slid off the soft chair and onto her feet. “Taria—I mean, Master Damsin. You—you look better.”
Master Damsin flicked a quick look around the softly lit Healing Halls antechamber. “We’re alone. Taria’s fine.”
“All right. Taria,” she said, feeling a warm wash of pleasure despite her various worries. “Are you feeling better?”
Taria wrinkled her nose. “As better as I’m likely to. Look—Ahsoka—”
“No. You don’t have to explain. It’s none of my business.”
“True, it’s not,” said Taria. “But I know you’re curious. Are you hungry, too?”
Hungry? She was starving. “I could eat.”
“And so could I.” Taria stepped back. “Come on.”
“You mean Master Vokara Che’s not keeping you here?”
“Trust me, Ahsoka, a stampeding herd of wild banthas couldn’t keep me here,” said Taria, backing up another step. “Don’t worry. I’ve been given the all-clear, I promise.”
Not disbelieving, just a little bit doubtful, she bit her lip. On the way home to Coruscant, their mission accomplished, Taria had bled some more and been in obvious pain. “Are you sure?”
Taria rolled her eyes. “I’m sure. Stop fussing, you old woman. One Vokara Che in my life is enough.”
It
occurred to Ahsoka then that the Jedi Master was teasing her, bantering with her the way Skyguy and Master Kenobi bantered with each other because they were friends.
Does that mean Taria and I are friends? Is that how easily it happens?
From the way Taria was smiling at her, it seemed the answer was yes.
Wow.
They made their way to the nearest dining hall in companionable silence. It looked like word of their exploits on Corellia was yet to circulate—there was nothing more than simple friendliness in any of the nods and smiles they received from the other Jedi they encountered on the way.
“So,” said Taria, once they were seated in a private booth with bowls of steaming bean soup and fresh, crusty bread. The dining hall’s air was warm and scented with good food. Scattered, cheerful conversations provided a backdrop of sound. “To make a long story short, Ahsoka, it’s called Borotavi syndrome. It’s not contagious but it is terminal. Eventually.”
Ahsoka felt her mouth suck dry. Terminal? But—but—She’s so young and strong and amazing. So alive. “How did you get it?”
“I ate the wrong kind of shellfish on Pamina Prime.” With a wry smile Taria stirred a pinch of salt into her soup. “Turns out it’s the blue-shelled mollusk with the green stripe you need to watch out for. Blue mollusks with black stripes you can eat till you burst.” She sat back. “Just a little tip to stand you in good stead, if ever you find yourself on Pamina Prime.”
She’d never even heard of the place. “I’ll—I’ll try to remember that,” she said. All of a sudden she wasn’t hungry anymore. “Taria, I’m—”
“Don’t you say it. Don’t you dare,” Taria snapped, her face fierce. And then she sighed. Looked away. “Stang.”
“No,” she said quickly. “It’s all right. You don’t want pity. I get that. Skyguy—I mean, Master Skywalker—he’s the same about his arm. You know. The one Dooku cut off.”
