by James Luceno
It came when Yoda found himself alone against the dark.
In that lightning-speared tornado of feet and fists and blades and bashing machines, his vision finally pierced the darkness that had clouded the Force.
Finally, he saw the truth.
This truth: that he, the avatar of light, Supreme Master of the Jedi Order, the fiercest, most implacable, most devastatingly powerful foe the darkness had ever known …
just—
didn’t—
have it.
He’d never had it. He had lost before he started.
He had lost before he was born.
The Sith had changed. The Sith had grown, had adapted, had invested a thousand years’ intensive study into every aspect of not only the Force but Jedi lore itself, in preparation for exactly this day. The Sith had remade themselves.
They had become new.
While the Jedi—
The Jedi had spent that same millennium training to refight the last war.
The new Sith could not be destroyed with a lightsaber; they could not be burned away by any torch of the Force. The brighter his light, the darker their shadow. How could one win a war against the dark, when war itself had become the dark’s own weapon?
He knew, at that instant, that this insight held the hope of the galaxy. But if he fell here, that hope would die with him.
Hmmm, Yoda thought. A problem this is …
Blade-to-blade, they were identical. After thousands of hours in lightsaber sparring, they knew each other better than brothers, more intimately than lovers; they were complementary halves of a single warrior.
In every exchange, Obi-Wan gave ground. It was his way. And he knew that to strike Anakin down would burn his own heart to ash.
Exchanges flashed. Leaps were sideslipped or met with flying kicks; ankle sweeps skipped over and punches parried. The door of the control center fell in pieces, and then they were inside among the bodies. Consoles exploded in fountains of white-hot sparks as they ripped free of their moorings and hurtled through the air. Dead hands spasmed on triggers and blaster bolts sizzled through impossibly intricate lattices of ricochet.
Obi-Wan barely caught some and flipped them at Anakin: a desperation move. Anything to distract him; anything to slow him down. Easily, contemptuously, Anakin sent them back, and the bolts flared between their blades until their galvening faded and the particles of the packeted beams dispersed into radioactive fog.
“Don’t make me destroy you, Obi-Wan.” Anakin’s voice had gone deeper than a well and bleak as the obsidian cliffs. “You’re no match for the power of the dark side.”
“I’ve heard that before,” Obi-Wan said through his teeth, parrying madly, “but I never thought I’d hear it from you.”
A roar of the Force blasted Obi-Wan back into a wall, smashing breath from his lungs, leaving him swaying, half stunned. Anakin stepped over bodies and lifted his blade for the kill.
Obi-Wan had only one trick left, one that wouldn’t work twice—
But it was a very good trick.
It had, after all, worked rather splendidly on Grievous …
He twitched one finger, reaching through the Force to reverse the polarity of the electrodrivers in Anakin’s mechanical hand.
Durasteel fingers sprang open, and a lightsaber tumbled free.
Obi-Wan reached. Anakin’s lightsaber twisted in the air and flipped into his hand. He poised both blades in a cross before him. “The flaw of power is arrogance.”
“You hesitate,” Anakin said. “The flaw of compassion—”
“It’s not compassion,” Obi-Wan said sadly. “It’s reverence for life. Even yours. It’s respect for the man you were.”
He sighed. “It’s regret for the man you should have been.”
Anakin roared and flew at him, using both the Force and his body to crash Obi-Wan back into the wall once more. His hands seized Obi-Wan’s wrists with impossible strength, forcing his arms wide. “I am so sick of your lectures!”
Dark power bore down with his grip.
Obi-Wan felt the bones of his forearms bending, beginning to feather toward the greenstick fractures that would come before the final breaks.
Oh, he thought. Oh, this is bad.
The end came with astonishing suddenness.
The shadow could feel how much it cost the little green freak to bend back his lightnings into the cage of energy that enclosed them both; the creature had reached the limits of his strength. The shadow released its power for an instant, long enough only to whirl away through the air and alight upon one of the delegation pods as it flew past, and the creature leapt to follow—
Half a second too slow.
The shadow unleashed its lightning while the creature was still in the air, and the little green freak took its full power. The shock blasted him backward to crash against the podium, and he fell.
He fell a long way.
The base of the Arena was a hundred meters below, littered with twisted scraps and jags of metal from the pods destroyed in the battle, and as the little green freak fell, finally, above, the victorious shadow became once again only Palpatine: a very old, very tired man, gasping for air as he leaned on the pod’s rail.
Old he might have been, but there was nothing wrong with his eyesight; he scanned the wreckage below, and he did not see a body.
He flicked a finger, and in the Chancellor’s Podium a dozen meters away, a switch tripped and sirens sounded throughout the enormous building; another surge of the Force sent his pod streaking in a downward spiral to the holding office at the base of the Podium tower. Clone troops were already swarming into it.
“It was Yoda,” he said as he swung out of the pod. “Another assassination attempt. Find him and kill him. If you have to, blow up the building.”
He didn’t have time to direct the search personally. The Force hummed a warning in his bones: Lord Vader was in danger.
Mortal danger.
Clones scattered. He stopped one officer. “You. Call the shuttle dock and tell them I’m on my way. Have my ship warmed and ready.”
The officer saluted, and Palpatine, with vigor that surprised even himself, ran.
With the help of the Force, Yoda sprinted along the service accessway below the Arena faster than a human being could run; he sliced conduits as he passed, filling the accessway behind him with coils of high-voltage cables, twisting and spitting lightning. Every few dozen meters, he paused just long enough to slash a hole in the accessway’s wall; once his pursuers got past the cables, they would have to divide their forces to search each of his possible exits.
But he knew they could afford to; there were thousands of them.
He pulled his comlink from inside his robe without slowing down; the Force whispered a set of coordinates and he spoke them into the link. “Delay not,” he added. “Swiftly closing is the pursuit. Failed I have, and kill me they will.”
The Convocation Center of the Galactic Senate was a drum-mounted dome more than a kilometer in diameter; even with the aid of the Force, Yoda was breathing hard by the time he reached its edge. He cut through the floor beneath him and dropped down into another accessway, this one used for maintenance on the huge lighting system that shone downward onto Republic Plaza through transparisteel panels that floored the underside of the huge dome’s rim. He cut into the lightwell; the reflected wattage nearly blinded him to the vertiginous drop below the transparisteel on which he stood.
Without hesitation he cut through that as well and dived headlong into the night.
Catching the nether edges of his long cloak to use as an improvised airfoil, he let the Force guide him in a soaring free fall away from the Convocation Center; he was too small to trigger its automated defense perimeter, but the open-cockpit speeder toward which he fell would get blasted from the sky if it deviated one meter inward from its curving course.
He released his robe so that it flapped upward, making a sort of drogue that righted him in the air so t
hat he fell feetfirst into the speeder’s passenger seat beside Bail Organa.
While Yoda strapped himself in, the Senator from Alderaan pulled the rented speeder through a turn that would have impressed Anakin Skywalker, and shot away toward the nearest intersection of Coruscant’s congested skyways.
Yoda’s eyes squeezed closed.
“Master Yoda? Are you wounded?”
“Only my pride,” Yoda said, and meant it, though Bail could not possibly understand how deep that wound went, nor how it bled. “Only my pride.”
With Anakin’s grip on his wrists bending his arms near to breaking, forcing both their lightsabers down in a slow but unstoppable arc, Obi-Wan let go.
Of everything.
His hopes. His fears. His obligation to the Jedi, his promise to Qui-Gon, his failure with Anakin.
And their lightsabers.
Startled, Anakin instinctively shifted his Force grip, releasing one wrist to reach for his blade; in that instant Obi-Wan twisted free of his other hand and with the Force caught up his own blade, reversing it along his forearm so that his swift parry of Anakin’s thundering overhand not only blocked the strike but directed both blades to slice through the wall against which he stood. He slid Anakin’s following thrust through the wall on the opposite side, guiding both blades again up and over his head in a circular sweep so that he could use the power of Anakin’s next chop to drive himself backward through the wall, outside into the smoke and the falling cinders.
Anakin followed, constantly attacking; Obi-Wan again gave ground, retreating along a narrow balcony high above the black-sand shoreline of a lake of fire.
Mustafar hummed with death behind his back, only a moment away, somewhere out there among the rivers of molten rock. Obi-Wan let Anakin drive him toward it.
It was a place, he decided, they should reach together.
Anakin forced him back and back, slamming his blade down with strength that seemed to flow from the volcano overhead. He spun and whirled and sliced razor-sharp shards of steel from the wall and shot them at Obi-Wan with the full heat of his fury. He slashed through a control panel along the walkway, and the ray shield that had held back the lava storm vanished.
Fire rained around them.
Obi-Wan backed to the end of the balcony; behind him was only a power conduit no thicker than his arm, connecting it to the main collection plant of the old lava mine, over a riverbed that flowed with white-hot molten stone. Obi-Wan stepped backward onto the conduit without hesitation, his balance flawless as he parried chop after chop.
Anakin came on.
Out on the tightrope of power conduit, their blades blurred even faster than before. They chopped and slashed and parried and blocked. Lava bombs thundered to the ground below, shedding drops of burning stone that scorched their robes. Smoke shrouded the planet’s star, and now the only light came from the hell-glow of the lava below them and from their blades themselves. Flares of energy crackled and spat.
This was not Sith against Jedi. This was not light against dark or good against evil; it had nothing to do with duty or philosophy, religion or morals.
It was Anakin against Obi-Wan.
Personally.
Just the two of them, and the damage they had done to each other.
Obi-Wan backflipped from the conduit to a coupling nexus of the main collection plant; when Anakin flew in pursuit, Obi-Wan leapt again. They spun and whirled throughout its levels, up its stairs, and across its platforms; they battled out onto the collection panels over which the cascades of lava poured, and Obi-Wan, out on the edge of the collection panel, hunching under a curve of durasteel that splashed aside gouts of lava, deflecting Force blasts and countering strikes from this creature of rage that had been his best friend, suddenly comprehended an unexpectedly profound truth.
The man he faced was everything Obi-Wan had devoted his life to destroying: Murderer. Traitor. Fallen Jedi. Lord of the Sith. And here, and now, despite it all …
Obi-Wan still loved him.
Yoda had said it, flat-out: Allow such attachments to pass out of one’s life, a Jedi must, but Obi-Wan had never let himself understand. He had argued for Anakin, made excuses, covered for him again and again and again; all the while this attachment he denied even feeling had blinded him to the dark path his best friend walked.
Obi-Wan knew there was, in the end, only one answer for attachment …
He let it go.
The lake of fire, no longer held back by the ray shield, chewed away the shore on which the plant stood, and the whole massive structure broke loose, sending both warriors skidding, scrabbling desperately for handholds down tilting durasteel slopes that were rapidly becoming cliffs; they hung from scraps of cable as the plant’s superstructure floated out into the lava, sinking slowly as its lower levels melted and burned away.
Anakin kicked off from the toppling superstructure, swinging through a wide arc over the lava’s boil. Obi-Wan shoved out and met him there, holding the cable with one hand and the Force, angling his blade high. Anakin flicked a Shien whipcrack at his knees. Obi-Wan yanked his legs high and slashed through the cable above Anakin’s hand, and Anakin fell.
Pockets of gas boiled to the surface of the lava, gouting flame like arms reaching to gather him in.
But Anakin’s momentum had already swung back toward the dissolving wreck of the collection plant, and the Force carried him within reach of another cable. Obi-Wan whipped his legs around his cable, altering its arc to bring him within reach of the one from which Anakin now dangled, but Anakin was on to this game now, and he swung cable-to-cable ahead of Obi-Wan’s advance, using the Force to carry himself higher and higher, forcing Obi-Wan to counter by doing the same; on this terrain, altitude was everything.
Simultaneous surges of the Force carried them both spinning up off the cables to the slant of the toppling superstructure’s crane deck. Obi-Wan barely got his feet on the metal before Anakin pounced on him and they stood almost toe-to-toe, blades whirling and crashing on all sides, while around them the collection plant’s maintenance droids still tinkered mindlessly away at the doomed machinery, as they would continue to do until lava closed over them and they melted to their constituent molecules and dissolved into the flow.
A roar louder even than the volcano’s eruption came from the river ahead; metal began to shriek and stretch. The river dropped away in a vertical sheet of fire that vanished into boiling clouds of smoke and gases.
The whole collection plant was being carried, inexorably, out over a vast lava-fall.
Obi-Wan decided he didn’t really want to see what was at the bottom.
He turned Anakin’s blade aside with a two-handed block and landed a solid kick that knocked the two apart. Before Anakin could recover his balance, Obi-Wan took a running leap that became a graceful dive headlong off the crane deck. He hurtled down past level after level, and only a few tens of meters above the lava itself the Force called a dangling cable to his hand, turning his dive into a swing that carried him high and far, to the very limit of the cable.
And he let it go.
As though jumping from a swing in the Temple playrooms, his velocity sent him flying up and out over a catenary arc that shot him toward the river’s shore.
Toward. Not quite to.
But the Force had led him here, and again it had not betrayed him: below, humming along a few meters above the lava river, came a big, slow old repulsorlift platform, carrying droids and equipment out toward a collection plant that its programming was not sophisticated enough to realize was about to be destroyed.
Obi-Wan flipped in the air and let the Force bring him to a catfooted landing. An adder-quick stab of his lightsaber disabled the platform’s guidance system, and Obi-Wan was able to direct it back toward the shore with a simple shift of his weight.
He turned to watch as the collection plant shrieked like the damned in a Corellian hell, crumbling over the brink of the falls until it vanished into invisible destruction.
>
Obi-Wan lowered his head. “Good-bye, old friend.”
But the Force whispered a warning, and Obi-Wan lifted his head in time to see Anakin come hurtling toward him out from the boil of smoke above the falls, perched on a tiny repulsorlift droid. The little droid was vastly swifter than Obi-Wan’s logy old cargo platform, and Anakin was easily able to swing around Obi-Wan and cut him off from the shore. Obi-Wan shifted weight one way, then another, but Anakin’s droid was nimble as a sand panther; there was no way around, and this close to the lava, the heat was intense enough to crisp Obi-Wan’s hair.
“This is the end for you, Master,” he said. “I wish it were otherwise.”
“Yes, Anakin, so do I,” Obi-Wan said as he sprinted into a leaping dive, making a spear of his blade.
Anakin leaned aside and deflected the thrust almost contemptuously; he missed a cut at Obi-Wan’s legs as the Jedi Master flew past him.
Obi-Wan turned his dive into a forward roll that left him barely teetering on the rim of a low cliff, just above the soft black sand of the riverbank. Anakin snarled a curse as he realized he’d been suckered, and leapt off his droid at Obi-Wan’s back—
Half a second too slow.
Obi-Wan’s whirl to parry didn’t meet Anakin’s blade. It met his knee. Then his other knee.
And while Anakin was still in the air, burned-off lower legs only starting their topple down the cliff, Obi-Wan’s recovery to guard brought his blade through Anakin’s left arm above the elbow. He stepped back as Anakin fell.
Anakin dropped his lightsaber, clawing at the edge of the cliff with his mechanical hand, but his grip was too powerful for the lava bank and it crumbled, and he slid down onto the black sand. His severed legs and his severed arm rolled into the lava below him and burned to ash in sudden bursts of scarlet flame.
The same color, Obi-Wan observed distantly, as a Sith blade.
Anakin scrabbled at the soft black sand, but struggling only made him slip farther. The sand itself was hot enough that digging his durasteel fingers into it burned off his glove, and his robes began to smolder.
