The Clone Wars: Wild Space

by Karen Miller

  The Clone Wars: Wild Space

  By Karen Miller

  The Clone Wars - Book 2

  The Clone Wars

  01 - The Clone Wars

  02 - The Clone Wars: Wild Space

  03 - The Clone Wars: No Prisoners

  04 - Clone Wars Gambit: Stealth

  05 - Clone Wars Gambit: Siege

  Dedication

  To Ewan McGregor, a fine actor who brought young Obi-Wan Kenobi so perfectly and heartbreakingly to life

  Acknowledgments

  My thanks to:

  George Lucas, who literally shaped the course of my life with the release of Star Wars in 1977.

  Shelly Shapiro, for giving me this extraordinary opportunity.

  Sue Rostoni, for her wonderful support and encouragement.

  Karen Traviss, who made sure I didn’t fall flat on my face. You rock, mate.

  Jason Fry, with the eagle eye.

  My friends and family, who cheered from the sidelines and agreed that yes, this was Seriously Cool.

  The fans, who have helped to keep the galaxy far, far, away alive and vibrant for more than three decades. We may not always agree, but we know what we love.

  Chapter One

  Then:

  The battle of Geonosis, Aftermath

  Geonosis, harsh red planet. Dust and rock and pitiless heat, wind and sand and a sky full of shards. Tenacious life. Capricious death. All moist green beauty long burned away. No second chances here, no soft place to fall. Secrets and sedition and singular minds. Ambition and gluttony and a hunger for death. Refuge for some. Graveyard for others. Blood of the Republic seeping into dry soil. Faint on the ceaseless wind, sorrow and grief. Gathered in the arena, a weeping of Jedi…

  Who wept their tears on the inside, where they would not be seen. To weep for a fallen comrade was to display unseemly attachment. A Jedi did not become attached to people, to things, to places, to any world or its inhabitants. A Jedi’s strength was fed by serenity. By distance. By loving impersonally.

  At least, that was the ideal…

  Weary and heart-sore, Yoda stood in silence with his fellow Master and friend Mace Windu, watching as efficient clone troopers swiftly, methodically, and not unkindly loaded the last of the slain Jedi onto repulsorlift pallets, then pushed them one-handed out of Poggle the Lesser’s brutal arena to the Republic transport ships waiting beyond its high walls. They were supervised by those few Jedi who had survived the slaughter and the military engagement that followed it… and who were not as serenely detached as Temple philosophy might dictate.

  The Battle of Geonosis was over, the Separatist droid army dealt a crushing setback. But its leader Count Dooku had fled, the traitor, and his underlings from the Trade Federation, the Techno Union, the Commerce Guild, the InterGalactic Banking Clan, the Hyper-Communications Cartel, and the Corporate Alliance had fled also, to safety. Fled so they might continue to plot the downfall of the galaxy’s great achievement, its Republic.

  “I do not regret coming here,” said Mace, his dark face darkened further by shadows. “We’ve dealt a serious blow to our enemy, and in doing so we’ve seen what this clone army is capable of. That’s useful. But Yoda, we have paid a heavier price than I imagined, or foresaw.”

  Yoda nodded, his gnarled fingers tight about his ancient gimer stick. “The truth you speak, Master Windu. Nothing gained, there is, without some loss also to balance the scales.” He breathed out slowly, a long, heavy sigh. “Foolish indeed would we be, to think we might escape such a confrontation unscathed. But this loss the Temple will find difficult to overcome. Into Jedi Knighthood too soon must we thrust our oldest Padawans, I fear.”

  Padawans like Anakin Skywalker, so bright, so reckless… and now so hurt. On his way back to Coruscant already, with Obi-Wan and the determined, brave, and equally reckless young Senator from Naboo.

  Trouble for him, and for her, I sense. If only clearly could I see. But a shroud the dark side is. In smothering folds it wraps us all.

  “What?” said Mace, frowning. Sensing his disquiet, as he always did. “Yoda, what’s wrong?”

  Talia Moonseeker, a young Argauun only four months into her Jedi Knighthood, was kneeling beside her fallen former Master, Va’too, head bowed. With an effort Yoda pulled his gaze away from her grief, away from the monstrous arena, still searing in the daylight. A Geonosis day lasted so long. There were yet many hours before the sun would set on this stark vista.

  “Answer you plainly I cannot, Master Windu,” he replied heavily. “Time for meditation, I require.”

  “Then you should return to the Temple,” said Mace. “I can oversee the cleanup operation here. You are our only beacon in the darkness, Yoda. Without your wisdom and foresight, I doubt we can prevail.”

  He meant the words kindly, a declaration of confidence, but Yoda felt the weight of them settle into his bones with a cruel finality.

  Too old am I to be the last hope of the Jedi.

  He watched as Talia Moonseeker withdrew to a discreet distance, so the body of her slain former Master might be decently carried from the arena by the tireless clones who had fought this day, and died this day, so utterly single-minded and fearless that he thought of droids, not men—droids of flesh and blood, bred and drilled to be perfectly disciplined, perfectly lethal. Bred to die so the people of the Republic might live. Commissioned under the most mysterious circumstances, the truth of which might never be unraveled.

  Remembering the Kaminoan cloning facility, its bright white sterility, its impersonal care for the creatures it created so efficiently, so remarkably, so wholly without compunction, he repressed a shudder.

  Deep questions of morality and ethics do these clones raise. But answers, are there? Know that I do not. Override ethics our desperate need for them might.

  Mace dropped to one knee. “Is it Dooku, Yoda? Is he what’s troubling you?”

  Bitter pain, pricking deeply. Dooku. Yoda thrust the name, the shock, aside. There would be time later to think of that fallen man. “To the Temple I shall now return, Master Windu. Follow me as soon as you can. Important matters there are for the Council to discuss.”

  Accepting the gentle rebuff, Mace stood. “Travel safely, Yoda. I’ll see you on Coruscant once matters here are properly concluded.” With an abrupt snap of his fingers he summoned a nearby clone trooper. “Master Yoda is returning to Coruscant. He requires an escort to his ship.”

  The trooper nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Watching the lethal asteroid belt fall away behind them, watching cruel red Geonosis smear and streak as the ship’s hyperdrive kicked in, Yoda released the lingering grief of the recent past in another long, slow sigh. Grief was but a signifier of attachment. It had no useful purpose to serve. If he was to serve the light, as was his purpose, then must he rediscover that perfectly poised place within himself, whereupon he could stand and know he stood upon firm ground.

  For once he reached Coruscant, the hard work of saving the Republic would truly begin.

  The Jedi Temple’s Halls of Healing were beautiful. They had lofty ceilings and enormous windows that spilled golden light over the blue and green and rose-pink walls and floor. Imbued with the Force’s most gentle aspects, with love and nurturing and peace, they were full of perfumed flowers and green growing things, with the music of running water and the vibrancy of life renewed. They were the perfect retreat for those who were broken in body and mind, a place where the ugliness of suffering was washed away.

  Oblivious to the serenity around her, Padmé glared at the elderly, elegant Twi’lek Jedi healer standing in her way. “I don’t need long, Master Vokara Che. Just a few moments. But I really do need to see Anakin Skywalker.”

 
Twin head-tails gently twitching, the Twi’lek clasped her hands before her. “I am sorry, Senator Amidala, but that’s not possible.” Her voice had that familiar Twi’lek huskiness, but her Basic was flawless. “Anakin is gravely injured. He has been placed in a deep healing trance and cannot be disturbed.”

  “Yes, I know he’s gravely injured. I just traveled back from Geonosis with him.” Padmé gestured at her ruined white bodysuit, heedless of the hot pain any movement caused. “See here, Madam Jedi? This is his blood. Trust me, I know exactly how badly he’s been hurt!”

  To underscore that claim she could show the Temple’s senior healer her crushed and bone-bruised hand, the hand Anakin had clung to as the waves of agony from his monstrous wounding burned through him without cease or mercy.

  But I’d better not. He isn’t supposed to be holding anyone’s hand… least of all mine. It’s bad enough that Obi-Wan was a witness.

  The Jedi healer shook her head. “Senator, you are injured yourself. Let us help you.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Padmé said, impatient. “I’m barely scratched, and anyway, I’m not in pain.”

  Vokara Che gave her a reproving look. “Senator, do not think you can hoodwink me. I’m not even touching you and I can feel your discomfort.” Her head fell back and her eyes drifted closed. “Some kind of creature attacked you, yes? And you fell from a great height. There is head pain. Your ribs are bruised. So is your spine. It’s a wonder no bones were broken.” The Twi’lek’s eyes opened, her cool gaze uncompromising. “Shall I continue?”

  Aching from head to toe, the nexu’s claw marks across her back burning, her battered ribs throbbing with every breath, Padmé gritted her teeth. “There is nothing wrong with me that five minutes with Anakin won’t fix. Master Vokara Che, you don’t understand. I really must see him. Anakin’s my bodyguard. My responsibility.”

  And this is my fault. I bullied him into going to Geonosis and he nearly died, so if you think I’m abandoning him now—

  “Anakin Skywalker is not your responsibility,” the Jedi healer said sharply. “He is a Jedi and he is safely home among his fellow Jedi, who know precisely what to do for him. Please, let us treat you so you might leave the Temple in good order.” A faint hint of censure crept into the Twi’lek’s eyes. “Indeed, I must point out that it’s not entirely proper for you to be here, for you to—”

  “And where else should I be?” Padmé demanded, not caring that her raised voice was attracting the attention of three apprentice healers scurrying about their mysterious Jedi business. Not caring that she was perilously close to making a scene, behaving in a manner unbecoming to a former Queen of Naboo, a member of the Galactic Senate, a politician with a very public face.

  I am not leaving this place before they let me see him.

  Vokara Che’s expression hardened. “If you’re not comfortable with receiving Jedi treatment, Senator, I can see you escorted to a medcenter or—”

  “You’re not escorting me anywhere! I want—”

  “Padmé,” said a quiet voice behind her.

  Master Vokara Che hurried forward. “Master Kenobi! What are you doing?”

  Heart thudding, Padmé turned. Obi-Wan. Still in his slashed and burned Jedi tunic. Unhealed as yet. Standing with difficulty in the doorway of a small chamber, clinging to its framework so he didn’t fall down. His face was pale; his eyes were darkened with fatigue and pain and something else.

  Despair? No. It can’t be. Jedi don’t feel things like that. At least… not this Jedi.

  “I’m sorry, Vokara Che,” he said quietly. “But I need a moment alone with the Senator.”

  “I don’t think that’s wise,” said the Jedi healer, one hand clasping his shoulder, unrepentantly aggravated. “You are a whisper away from collapse, Obi-Wan. I don’t understand it; you should have been healed by now. I expressly sent—”

  “And I sent her away,” said Obi-Wan, apologetic. “I’d rather not be sunk in a healing trance until I’ve seen my Padawan.”

  “You’re as bad as she is.” Vokara Che clicked her tongue. “Very well. You have a moment.”

  Padmé watched the healer withdraw, then looked again at Obi-Wan. After a moment’s hesitation she approached him, feeling suddenly young and gauche, like a childish apprentice. She tilted her chin. “Vokara Che’s right. You look awful.”

  “Do you truly think you’re helping Anakin?” said Obi-Wan. His voice was tight; his eyes were glazed. “You’re not. You don’t belong here, Padmé. Let them treat you, then go home. Before Yoda returns. Before things get… complicated.”

  She stared at him, shocked. She wanted to shout at him. She wanted to weep. Instead, she turned to leave.

  What else could she do?

  Upon his return to Coruscant, Yoda put duty first. Instead of going straight to the Temple’s Halls of Healing, he answered a peremptory summons from the Office of the Supreme Chancellor. Naboo’s former Senator was clearly anxious to hear firsthand of Geonosis; the language used was barely couched in the protocols accepted and expected for such communications.

  It wasn’t a meeting he anticipated with any kind of pleasure. More and more of late it seemed the Jedi were being drawn into politics, into matters of legislation and legalese that had never been their province. The Jedi were sworn to uphold the Republic and protect its ideals, not entangle themselves in the fortunes of any one Chancellor. Political careers were not their affair. Personalities were supposed to be irrelevant.

  But somehow Palpatine was changing that. Not by being a bully or imposing his will. Quite the opposite: he was constantly resisting the Senate’s eagerness for him to assume more and more executive powers. He resisted, the Senate insisted, so reluctantly Palpatine agreed. And every time he acquiesced to its requests, he turned once more to the Jedi for advice.

  It was hardly an ideal situation. The Jedi Council was not just another branch of the executive office. But how, in good conscience, could it refuse to aid a man who so humbly petitioned for their assistance? A man who championed them in the Senate at every opportunity? Who had worked tirelessly for peace since assuming the highest political office in the galaxy and was now faced with the daunting, terrifying task of keeping their vast Republic intact? How could the Jedi Council turn its back on such a man?

  Clearly, it couldn’t. Clearly, in the face of these extraordinary times, the Jedi must set aside their traditions and come to the aid of the man a galaxy looked to as its savior.

  But that didn’t mean they had to be happy about it.

  With his ship safely docked at the Temple’s private spaceport, Yoda transferred to an air shuttle that would see him speedily delivered to the Senatorial complex. His Padawan pilot, T’Seely, acknowledged him respectfully but had the good sense not to talk as he guided the shuttle into the ceaseless slipstreams of Coruscant air traffic and headed for the sprawling Senate District.

  They reached the sector without incident. Directly ahead of them the Senate Building gleamed mellow silver beneath Coruscant’s sun. Cradle and crucible of democracy, it stood as a symbol of all that was right and good in the galaxy. Born in the Republic’s early years, able to remember, vividly, its growing pains and minor upheavals, Yoda treasured that symbol and all it represented as he treasured his beloved Jedi Order.

  But now does the silver show a touch of tarnish. Never before in galactic history has democracy trembled as it trembles now.

  It was a sickening thought. Not once had he dreamed he might witness the fall of this grand Galactic Republic. All things died, that was true… yet somehow he’d imagined the Republic would be spared. Believed that it would evolve, transmute, reinvent itself, continue.

  The Jedi were oathsworn to see that it did. They were dying now to keep that sacred oath. No sacrifice would be too great to ensure the survival of peace and the Republic. It was unthinkable that those sacrifices might be in vain…

  The air shuttle’s transponder beeped as the Senate control tower’s automatic guida
nce system locked on to their signal and took over the business of piloting them to their assigned landing platform and dock space. It was a new security measure, implemented by Palpatine in a response to the Separatists’ increased bellicosity on planets less vigorously defended and patrolled than Coruscant. Not everyone was pleased by the move, claiming a curtailment of civic freedoms.

  Trying hard, Palpatine is, to keep us safe and free at the same time. An easy road to walk it is not.

  As their shuttle was swallowed by the Senate Building’s cavernous docking complex, joining a long line of other entering craft, the Padawan T’Seely cleared his throat, and his red head-scales brightened to scarlet, a sign of Hasikian anxiety.

  “Master Yoda?” he said, hesitant.

  “Speak, Padawan.”

  “There is rumor, at the Temple. Much death on Geonosis.”

  Yoda sighed. It was only to be expected, with the injured returning home. “Not rumor, Padawan, but fact.”

  T’Seely’s head-scales blanched white. “I was told—Master Kenobi—Anakin—”

  “Not dead they are, but injured.”

  “Oh.” T’Seely’s voice was a horrified whisper.

  Yoda frowned. It was not the Jedi way to laud one Jedi Knight above another, call one apprentice greater than the next, but in the case of Obi-Wan and Anakin accepted practice simply did not apply. Anakin Skywalker was proclaimed a child of prophecy. Obi-Wan was his Master, his reputation formidable. Together they appeared invincible. Or they had… until Geonosis.

  But he couldn’t afford to think of that now.

  “Die they will not, Padawan,” he told T’Seely firmly. “Gossip about them you will not.”

  “No, Master Yoda,” said T’Seely, chastened.

  Their shuttle slid smoothly into its allotted docking bay. All around them, as far as the keenest sight reached, other shuttles docked and undocked, carrying out the endless business of the Republic. Yoda dismissed T’Seely back to the Temple, then entered the bowels of the Senate complex and made his way through the bewildering maze of swift-tubes and corridors to its administration quarter, and Supreme Chancellor Palpatine’s executive suite.