by James Luceno
“Is this such a problem for you? Is not your quest to find a way to overturn prophecy?” Palpatine leaned close, smiling, warm and kindly. “Anakin, do you think the Sith did not know of this prophecy? Do you think we would simply sleep while it came to pass?”
“You mean—”
“This is what you must understand. This Jedi submission to fate … this is not the way of the Sith, Anakin. This is not my way. This is not your way. It has never been. It need never be.”
You’re drowning.
“I am not …,” you hear yourself say, “… on your side. I am not evil.”
“Who said anything about evil? I am bringing peace to the galaxy. Is that evil? I am offering you the power to save Padmé. Is that evil? Have I attacked you? Drugged you? Are you being tortured? My boy, I am asking you. I am asking you to do the right thing. Turn your back on treason. On all those who would harm the Republic. I’m asking you to do exactly what you have sworn to do: bring peace and justice to the galaxy. And save Padmé, of course—haven’t you sworn to protect her, too …?”
“I—but—I—” Words will not fit themselves into the answers you need. If only Obi-Wan were here—Obi-Wan would know what to say. What to do.
Obi-Wan could handle this.
Rght now, you know you can’t.
“I—I’ll turn you over to the Jedi Council—they’ll know what to do—”
“I’m sure they will. They are already planning to overthrow the Republic; you’ll give them exactly the excuse they’re looking for. And when they come to execute me, will that be justice? Will they be bringing peace?”
“They won’t—they wouldn’t—!”
“Well, of course I hope you’re correct, Anakin. You’ll forgive me if I don’t share your blind loyalty to your comrades. I suppose it does indeed come down, in the end, to a question of loyalty,” he said thoughtfully. “That’s what you must ask yourself, my boy. Whether your loyalty is to the Jedi, or to the Republic.”
“It’s not—it’s not like that—”
Palpatine lifted his shoulders. “Perhaps not. Perhaps it’s simply a question of whether you love Obi-Wan Kenobi more than you love your wife.”
There is no more searching for words.
There are no longer words at all.
“Take your time. Meditate on it. I will still be here when you decide.”
Inside your head, there is only fire. Around your heart, the dragon whispers that all things die.
This is how it feels to be Anakin Skywalker, right now.
There is an understated elegance in Obi-Wan Kenobi’s lightsaber technique, one that is quite unlike the feel one might get from the other great swordsbeings of the Jedi Order. He lacks entirely the flash, the pure bold élan of an Anakin Skywalker; there is nowhere in him the penumbral ferocity of a Mace Windu or a Depa Billaba nor the stylish grace of a Shaak Ti or a Dooku, and he is nothing resembling the whirlwind of destruction that Yoda can become.
He is simplicity itself.
That is his power.
Before Obi-Wan had left Coruscant, Mace Windu had told him of facing Grievous in single combat atop a mag-lev train during the general’s daring raid to capture Palpatine. Mace had told him how the computers slaved to Grievous’s brain had apparently analyzed even Mace’s unconventionally lethal Vaapad and had been able to respond in kind after a single exchange.
“He must have been trained by Count Dooku,” Mace had said, “so you can expect Makashi as well; given the number of Jedi he has fought and slain, you must expect that he can attack in any style, or all of them. In fact, Obi-Wan, I believe that of all living Jedi, you have the best chance to defeat him.”
This pronouncement had startled Obi-Wan, and he had protested. After all, the only form in which he was truly even proficient was Soresu, which was the most common lightsaber form in the Jedi Order. Founded upon the basic deflection principles all Padawans were taught—to enable them to protect themselves from blaster bolts—Soresu was very simple, and so restrained and defense-oriented that it was very nearly downright passive.
“But surely, Master Windu,” Obi-Wan had said, “you, with the power of Vaapad—or Yoda’s mastery of Ataro—”
Mace Windu had almost smiled. “I created Vaapad to answer my weakness: it channels my own darkness into a weapon of the light. Master Yoda’s Ataro is also an answer to weakness: the limitations of reach and mobility imposed by his stature and his age. But for you? What weakness does Soresu answer?”
Blinking, Obi-Wan had been forced to admit he’d never actually thought of it that way.
“That is so like you, Master Kenobi,” the Korun Master had said, shaking his head. “I am called a great swordsman because I invented a lethal style; but who is greater, the creator of a killing form—or the master of the classic form?”
“I’m very flattered that you would consider me a master, but really—”
“Not a master. The master,” Mace had said. “Be who you are, and Grievous will never defeat you.”
So now, facing the tornado of annihilating energy that is Grievous’s attack, Obi-Wan simply is who he is.
The electrodrivers powering Grievous’s mechanical arms let each of the four attack thrice in a single second; integrated by combat algorithms in the bio-droid’s electronic network of peripheral processors, each of the twelve strikes per second came from a different angle with different speed and intensity, an unpredictably broken rhythm of slashes, chops, and stabs of which every single one could take Obi-Wan’s life.
Not one touched him.
After all, he had often walked unscathed through hornet-swarms of blasterfire, defended only by the Force’s direction of his blade; countering twelve blows per second was only difficult, not impossible. His blade wove an intricate web of angles and curves, never truly fast but always just fast enough, each motion of his lightsaber subtly interfering with three or four or eight of the general’s strikes, the rest sizzling past him, his precise, minimal shifts of weight and stance slipping them by centimeters.
Grievous, snarling fury, ramped up the intensity and velocity of his attacks—sixteen per second, eighteen—until finally, at twenty strikes per second, he overloaded Obi-Wan’s defense.
So Obi-Wan used his defense to attack.
A subtle shift in the angle of a single parry brought Obi-Wan’s blade in contact not with the blade of the oncoming lightsaber, but with the handgrip.
—slice—
The blade winked out of existence a hairbreadth before it would have burned through Obi-Wan’s forehead. Half the severed lightsaber skittered away, along with the duranium thumb and first finger of the hand that had held it.
Grievous paused, eyes pulsing wide, then drawing narrow. He lifted his maimed hand and stared at the white-hot stumps that held now only half a useless lightsaber.
Obi-Wan smiled at him.
Grievous lunged.
Obi-Wan parried.
Pieces of lightsabers bounced on the durasteel deck.
Grievous looked down at the blade-sliced hunks of metal that were all he had left in his hands, then up at Obi-Wan’s shining sky-colored blade, then down at his hands again, and then he seemed to suddenly remember that he had an urgent appointment somewhere else.
Anywhere else.
Obi-Wan stepped toward him, but a shock from the Force made him leap back just as a scarlet HE bolt struck the floor right where he’d been about to place his foot. Obi-Wan rode the explosion, flipping in the air to land upright between a pair of super battle droids that were busily firing upon the flank of a squad of clone troopers, which they continued to do until they found themselves falling in pieces to the deck.
Obi-Wan spun.
In the chaos of exploding droids and dying men, Grievous was nowhere to be seen.
Obi-Wan waved his lightsaber at the clones. “The general!” he shouted. “Which way?”
One trooper circled his arm as though throwing a proton grenade back toward the archway where Obi-
Wan had first entered. He followed the gesture and saw, for an instant in the sun-shadow of the Vigilance outside, the back curves of twin bladed rings—ganged together to make a wheel the size of a starfighter—rolling swiftly off along the sinkhole rim.
General Grievous was very good at running away.
“Not this time,” Obi-Wan muttered, and cut a path through the tangled mob of droids all the way to the arch in a single sustained surge, reaching the open air just in time to see the blade-wheeler turn; it was an open ring with a pilot’s chair inside, and in the pilot’s chair sat Grievous, who lifted one of his bodyguards’ electrostaffs in a sardonic wave as he took the scooter straight out over the edge. Four claw-footed arms deployed, digging into the rock to carry him down the side of the sinkhole, angling away at a steep slant.
“Blast.” Obi-Wan looked around. Still no air taxis. Not that he had any real interest in flying through the storm of battle that raged throughout the interior of the sinkhole, but there was certainly no way he could catch Grievous on foot …
From around the corner of an interior tunnel, he heard a resonant honnnnk! as though a nearby bantha had swallowed an air horn.
He said, “Boga?”
The beaked face of the dragonmount slowly extended around the interior angle of the tunnel.
“Boga! Come here, girl! We have a general to catch.”
Boga fixed him with a reproachful glare. “Honnnnnk.”
“Oh, very well.” Obi-Wan rolled his eyes. “I was wrong; you were right. Can we please go now?”
The remaining fifteen meters of dragonmount hove into view and came trotting out to meet him. Obi-Wan sprang to the saddle, and Boga leapt to the sinkhole’s rim in a single bound. Her huge head swung low, searching, until Obi-Wan spotted Grievous’s blade-wheeler racing away toward the landing decks below.
“There, girl—that’s him! Go!”
Boga gathered herself and sprang to the rim of the next level down, poised for an instant to get her bearings, then leapt again down into the firestorm that Pau City had become. Obi-Wan spun his blade in a continuous whirl to either side of the dragonmount’s back, disintegrating shrapnel and slapping away stray blasterfire. They plummeted through the sinkhole-city, gaining tens of meters on Grievous with every leap.
On one of the landing decks, the canopy was lifting and parting to show a small, ultrafast armored shuttle of the type favored by the famously nervous Neimoidian executives of the Trade Federation. Grievous’s wheeler sprayed a fan of white-hot sparks as it tore across the landing deck; the bio-droid whipped the wheeler sideways, laying it down for a skidding halt that showered the shuttle with molten durasteel.
But before he could clamber out of the pilot’s chair, several metric tons of Jedi-bearing dragonmount landed on the shuttle’s roof, crouched and threatening and hissing venomously down at him.
“I hope you have another vehicle, General!” Obi-Wan waved his lightsaber toward the shuttle’s twin rear thrusters. “I believe there’s some damage to your sublights!”
“You’re insane! There’s no—”
Obi-Wan shrugged. “Show him, Boga.”
The dragonmount dutifully pointed out the damage with two whistling strikes of her massive tail-mace—wham and wham again—which crumpled the shuttle’s thruster tubes into crimped-shut knots of metal.
Obi-Wan beckoned. “Let’s settle this, shall we?”
Grievous’s answer was a shriek of tortured gyros that wrenched the wheeler upright, and a metal-on-metal scream of blades ripping into deck plates that sent it shooting straight toward the sinkhole wall—and, with the claw-arms to help, straight up it.
Obi-Wan sighed. “Didn’t we just come from there?”
Boga coiled herself and sprang for the wall, and the chase was on once more.
They raced through the battle, clawing up walls, shooting through tunnels, skidding and leaping, sprinting where the way was clear and screeching into high-powered serpentines where it was not, whipping around knots of droids and bounding over troopers. Boga ran straight up the side of a clone hovertank and sprang from its turret directly between the high-slanting ring-wheels of a hailfire, and a swipe of Obi-Wan’s blade left the droid crippled behind them. Native troops had taken the field: Utapaun dragonriders armed with sparking power lances charged along causeways, spearing droids on every side. Grievous ran right over anything in his path, the blades of his wheeler shredding droid and trooper and dragon alike; behind him, Obi-Wan’s lightsaber caught and returned blaster bolts in a spray that shattered any droid unwise enough to fire on him. A few stray bolts he batted into the speeding wheeler ahead, but without visible effect.
“Fine,” he muttered. “Let’s try this from a little closer.”
Boga gained steadily. Grievous’s vehicle had the edge in raw speed, but Boga could out-turn it and could make instant leaps at astonishing angles; the dragonmount also had an uncanny instinct for where the general might be heading, as well as a seemingly infinite knowledge of useful shortcuts through side tunnels, along sheer walls, and over chasms studded with locked-down wind turbines. Grievous tried once to block Obi-Wan’s pursuit by screeching out onto a huge pod that held a whole bank of wind turbines and knocking the blade-brakes off them with quick blows of the electrostaff, letting the razor-edged blades spin freely in the constant gale, but Obi-Wan merely brought Boga alongside the turbines and stuck his lightsaber into their whirl. Sliced-free chunks of carboceramic blade shrieked through the air and shattered on the stone on all sides, and with a curse Grievous kicked his vehicle into motion again.
The wheeler roared into a tunnel that seemed to lead straight into the rock of the plateau. The tunnel was jammed with groundcars and dragonmounts and wheelers and jetsters and all manner of other vehicles and every kind of beast that might bear or draw the vast numbers of Utapauns and Utai fleeing the battle. Grievous blasted right into them, blade-wheel chewing through groundcars and splashing the tunnel walls with chunks of shredded lizard; Boga raced along the walls above the traffic, sometimes even galloping on the ceiling with claws gouging chunks from the rock.
With a burst of sustained effort that strangled her honnnking to thin gasps for air, Boga finally pulled alongside Grievous. Obi-Wan leaned forward, stretching out with his lightsaber, barely able to reach the wheeler’s back curve, and carved away an arc of the wheeler’s blade-tread, making the vehicle buck and skid; Grievous answered with a thrust of his electrostaff that crackled lightning against Boga’s extended neck. The great beast jerked sideways, honking fearfully and whipping her head as though the burn was a biting creature she could shake off her flank.
“One more leap, Boga!” Obi-Wan shouted, pressing himself along the dragonmount’s shoulder. “Bring me even with him!”
The dragonmount complied without hesitation, and when Grievous thrust again, Obi-Wan’s free hand flashed out and seized the staff below its discharge blade, holding it clear of Boga’s vulnerable flesh. Grievous yanked on the staff, nearly pulling Obi-Wan out of the saddle, then jabbed it back at him, discharge blade sparking in his face—
With a sigh, Obi-Wan realized he needed both hands.
He dropped his lightsaber.
As his deactivated handgrip skittered and bounced along the tunnel behind him, he reflected that it was just as well Anakin wasn’t there after all; he’d have never heard the end of it.
He got his other hand on the staff just as Grievous jerked the wheeler sideways, half laying it down to angle for a small side tunnel just ahead. Obi-Wan hung on grimly. Through the Force he could feel Boga’s exhaustion, the buildup of anaerobic breakdown products turning the dragonmount’s mighty legs to cloth. An open archway showed daylight ahead. Boga barely made the turn, and they raced side by side along the empty darkened way, joined by the spark-spitting rod of the electrostaff.
As they cleared the archway to a small, concealed landing deck deep in a private sinkhole, Obi-Wan leapt from the saddle, yanking on the staff to swing both his boots ha
rd into the side of Grievous’s duranium skull. The wheeler’s internal gyros screamed at the sudden impact and shift of balance. Their shrieks cycled up to bursts of smoke and fragments of metal as their catastrophic failure sent the wheeler tumbling in a white-hot cascade of sparks.
Dropping the staff, Obi-Wan leapt again, the Force lifting him free of the crash.
Grievous’s electronic reflexes sent him out of the pilot’s chair in the opposite direction.
The wheeler flipped over the edge of the landing deck and into the shadowy abyss of the sinkhole. It trailed smoke all the way down to a distant, delayed, and very final crash.
The electrostaff had rolled away, coming to rest against the landing jack of a small Techno Union starfighter that stood on the deck a few meters behind Obi-Wan. Behind Grievous, the archway back into the tunnel system was filled with a panting, exhausted, but still dangerously angry dragonmount.
Obi-Wan looked at Grievous.
Grievous looked at Obi-Wan.
There was no longer any need for words between them.
Obi-Wan simply stood, centered in the Force, waiting for Grievous to make his move.
A concealed compartment in the general’s right thigh sprang open, and a mechanical arm delivered a slim hold-out blaster to his hand. He brought it up and fired so fast that his arm blurred to invisiblity.
Obi-Wan … reached.
The electrostaff flipped into the air between them, one discharge blade catching the bolt. The impact sent the staff whirling—
Right into Obi-Wan’s hand.
There came one instant’s pause, while they looked into each other’s eyes and shared an intimate understanding that their relationship had reached its end.
Obi-Wan charged.
Grievous backed away, unleashing a stream of blaster bolts as fast as his half a forefinger could pull the trigger.
Obi-Wan spun the staff, catching every bolt, not even slowing down, and when he reached Grievous he slapped the blaster out of his hand with a crack of the staff that sent blue lightning scaling up the general’s arm.
His following strike was a stiff stab into Grievous’s jointed stomach armor that sent the general staggering back. Obi-Wan hit him again in the same place, denting the armorplast plate, cracking the joint where it met the larger, thicker plates of his chest as Grievous flailed for balance, but when he spun the staff for his next strike the general’s flailing arm flailed itself against the middle of the staff and his other hand found it as well and he seized it, yanking himself upright against Obi-Wan’s grip, his metal skull-face coming within a centimeter of the Jedi Master’s nose.
