by Karen Miller
Not that he resented the chance to do his duty. He meant every word he’d just said to Obi-Wan: he was desperate to see the Republic victorious against the Separatists. Already this war had brought him to despair. And the longer it continued, the deeper would flow the rivers of blood.
We should never have let it get this far. If we’d been stronger, the Separatists would never have become so bold. We should have stopped them. The blame is ours. What use are the Jedi if we refuse to use our power for good? Why have power at all if we’re forbidden to wield it as strongly as we can?
Obi-Wan nudged him. “Your apprentice has finished her task, Master Skywalker.”
Anakin winced. “Don’t call me that. It doesn’t sound right.”
As Obi-Wan chuckled, Anakin looked down into the dojo to see that Ahsoka was indeed done with her fifty repetitions of Niman form, level one. She was panting, her tunic damp from her exertions. Training lightsaber still engaged, she stared hopefully at the balcony.
“Not that I wish to tell you how to school your Padawan,” Obi-Wan added, “but I think she’s had enough for one day. What say you and I give her a demonstration of some more advanced techniques, hmmm?”
Anakin smiled. Sparring. There was nothing he enjoyed more than sparring. Especially against Obi-Wan, renowned as one of the Temple’s most accomplished and formidable duelists. They were so attuned to each other now, after years of crossing lightsabers in sport, that in many ways it was like dueling with himself.
“An excellent idea, Master Kenobi,” he said. “Shall we?”
And with a shared grin, no further discussion needed, they leapt lightly over the edge of the balcony to land cushioned by the Force at a startled Ahsoka’s feet.
“Your training lightsaber, Padawan,” said Obi-Wan at his most polite, hand outstretched. “And then perhaps you should find a safe place to stand.”
Clearly awed and excited, Ahsoka surrendered her training weapon. Then, with a cheeky glance at her Master, she Force-jumped up to the observation balcony.
“Tut tut,” said Obi-Wan. “Such levity, Anakin. I wonder where she learned that bad habit?”
“I can’t imagine, Master,” Anakin retorted, the old honorific slipping out. But it didn’t feel wrong. It would never feel wrong. He unclipped the training lightsaber from his belt, powered it up, and let himself fall thoughtlessly, instinctively, into the prowling assessment that presaged every dueling bout.
Eyes intent, that small smile lurking, Obi-Wan matched him step for step. “Ready?”
Anakin nodded. “Always.”
And their dance began.
When Master Yoda told her she’d been apprenticed to Anakin Skywalker, Ahsoka didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. No Jedi in the Temple cast a longer shadow than Anakin, was surrounded by more rumor, more speculation. The tales of his exploits grew more lurid with each retelling. Everyone knew him… yet no one knew him at all. Except for Master Obi-Wan, of course, and he was as inscrutable, it seemed, as his legendary former Padawan.
The Chosen One? The Chosen One is to be my Master? Oh no. No, that can’t be right. There must be some mistake. They’ve got the wrong apprentice.
Except venerable Yoda didn’t make mistakes.
So heart in her mouth, terror bubbling in her blood, she’d traveled to Christophsis to meet the man who’d guide her to Jedi Knighthood. One way and another they’d had an… interesting… time.
He was more human than she’d been expecting. Pretty much as brilliant, and as volatile. More impatient, yet somehow more tolerant. All right, she’d skated pretty close to the edge a few times. Asked for the reprimands he’d given her. That had been nerves. The desire to impress him. Show him he’d landed himself the right apprentice. But she hadn’t acquitted herself too badly, all in all. At least he hadn’t seemed disappointed. Hadn’t run straight to Yoda on their return to the Temple and demanded another Padawan, any Padawan, just get that Ahsoka out of my sight!
So… it looked like they were together for the long haul. A proper team. Master and Padawan, fighting the good fight side by side.
Standing tippy-toe on the observation balcony, peering over the railing to the Jedi below, she felt in herself an unbecoming envy.
I’ll never handle a lightsaber as well as they do, even if I train twenty hours a day.
In some strange kind of Jedi alchemy, other Padawans and Jedi Knights were drifting to the dojo, joining her on the balcony to watch Master Obi-Wan and Master Anakin play as they dueled each other in the demanding Ataru Form IV.
And it was play, even though they were deadly serious.
Watching her mentor Force-leap over Master Obi-Wan’s head, graceful as a Tarchalian gazelle, she wondered if he thought about what had happened on Geonosis. About nearly dying. It had happened once… it could happen again. Was he afraid? If so, he never showed it.
Will I ever be that brave? I hope so. I can’t imagine it.
She wondered if he thought about the part of himself that was machine, not man. If she hadn’t known his right hand and forearm were made of metal instead of flesh, she would never have suspected it. Nothing in the way he carried himself suggested he was no longer… whole.
A Jedi could sense the Force in a lightsaber’s crystal, sense the amplification of power, that barely controlled catastrophe of potential. A Jedi became one with it, formed a living link with the Force as it flowed through and through the rare prism. So how did it feel to have that link interrupted by a prosthetic hand? What was it like for a Jedi to lose part of his incredible living connection to the Force?
I want to ask him. I don’t think I can.
The balcony was crowded now, and a constant excited commentary buzzed. Ahsoka frowned on the inside, where none of them would see. This was her training session. This was Obi-Wan and Anakin—Master Kenobi and Master Skywalker—dancing with their lightsabers for her. It wasn’t fair, these others pushing in.
An unworthy thought, and she thought it anyway—just for a moment.
Below them, in the dojo, the sparring Jedi had begun to sweat. But sweat didn’t stop them. The mock-fight carried on. Strike and counterstrike, blow and counterblow, leaping and spinning and slashing and evading. Running and jumping, as one with the Force. Every now and then, a sharp bark of laughter. A good-natured jibe. A clever hit acknowledged. Obi-Wan slapped his lightsaber across Anakin’s backside, and Anakin pretended to howl. That made the crowd on the balcony laugh. Ahsoka laughed with them, and didn’t mind so much that they were there.
Because, after all, she was Anakin’s apprentice. No one could take that away from her.
Though it scarcely seemed possible, they were fighting so swiftly already, Master Kenobi and Master Anakin increased their speed. The training lightsabers moved in a blur too fast to see with ordinary eyes. She could still count the individual moves; her Togrutan heritage had gifted her with senses more acute than those of a human, and many other species besides. Holding her breath, amazed and humbled, she watched two of the Temple’s finest Jedi put on a display of unmatched skill.
Strike—block—parry—evade—bind—counterbind—counter-measure—broken time—body-to-body and double release—Force push—Force pull—feint—backflip—recover… and start again.
When Obi-Wan ran up the wall and then across the ceiling and down the other side and Anakin pursued him everyone cheered, though it was hardly in keeping with Jedi reserve. She cheered. It was marvelous.
That’s who I want to be one day. That’s the kind of Jedi I want to become.
But not even Jedi like Obi-Wan and Anakin could keep up this kind of pace and power forever. Tired now, they finished their bout. Wringing wet, blowing hard, they bowed politely to each other. Then Obi-Wan reached out his hand and pressed his palm briefly to Anakin’s cheek. Ahsoka saw his lips move. Saw him say: Well done.
And the look on Anakin’s face, at those two small words, brought her treacherously close to tears.
The balcony was emptying swift
ly, the Jedi Knights and Padawans returning to the business they’d abandoned for a short time. Soon she was alone again, waiting for an instruction from her Master. He was saying something to Obi-Wan in a low voice; she couldn’t make out the words. Obi-Wan nodded, smiling, then glanced up.
“Your training saber, Padawan,” he said, all perfect courtesy, and tossed the borrowed weapon to her. “My thanks for the loan of it.”
As Master Kenobi left the dojo, Anakin retrieved the recording drone that had captured her earlier exercises and, to her surprise, because such things were frivolous, Force-floated it to the balcony so she might pluck it from the air.
“Find a private study chamber, Ahsoka, and examine your technique,” he instructed. “Tomorrow morning be ready to detail the best and the worst five things that you did.”
She tucked the drone into her tunic. “Tomorrow, Master? We’re not going to discuss my performance now?”
He shook his head. “Now I have somewhere else to be.”
Again. She thought he did that a lot, take himself off without explanation. Where did he go? He never said, and she knew better than to ask. “Yes, Master. What time tomorrow?”
He hesitated. “I’m not sure. Until I come for you, continue your training with a remote—and make sure to wear a blinder.”
Blind remote training again? She wanted to train with him. But she hid her disappointment and bowed, the perfect Padawan. “Yes, Master.”
“Good,” he said, and withdrew.
Alone, and philosophical, she left the dojo. Five good things and five bad, she mused, heading for the Temple library. Think I’ll surprise him and find ten instead.
They had a name for it in Coruscant’s grimy underbelly: buyer’s remorse.
In the aftermath of Geonosis, with the shadows of war deepening, Bail Organa truly understood what the term meant. He’d felt it first, a crushing hammer blow to the heart, standing on that private balcony with Palpatine and the others, watching tens of thousands of clone troopers marching with mathematical precision up the ramps of the great destroyer starships. Marching to their deaths, unquestioning, uncomplaining. Doing a terrible, inevitable duty, because that was all they’d been trained to do since birth.
He felt it again now, listening to Palpatine regale the Senate with the official report on the Battle of Christophsis and the rescue of Jabba’s son. And try as he might, he couldn’t imagine an end to that dreadful feeling.
Buyer’s remorse.
The battle of Geonosis had been a blooding, nothing more. A teasing taste of things to come. Since then, so many clone troops had fallen, most recently on Christophsis and Teth, in defense of a Republic that hardly knew what to do with them. Whose citizens, truth be told, didn’t care very much that they were fighting and dying, provided the war was kept far away from their lives. On Coruscant war was something to watch on the HoloNet news service, if there was nothing more entertaining to pass the time. Elsewhere, of course, things were somewhat… different.
He shifted in his Senate platform, restless, as Palpatine concluded his stirring address.
“And so, my friends, I ask you to join with me in congratulating the Jedi on their triumph. Their gritty determination to defeat our misguided brothers and sisters of the Separatist movement stands as a monument to this august body’s commitment—my commitment—to bringing this tragic conflict to a swift conclusion. This war is a dreadful burden upon us all, but I have complete faith that the Jedi will not long let our suffering continue.”
Under cover of the thunderous applause that followed, Bail leaned a little sideways. “He gets more and more inspirational, doesn’t he?”
Startled out of reverie, Padmé turned. “What? I’m sorry, Bail. I was thinking.”
“Not still brooding about that deal with the Hutts, are you? Because it’s done, and we can’t undo it.”
She shifted her attention back to the Senate Hall, where their fellow representatives were disembarking from their platforms, streaming into the honeycomb of passages behind.
“I know,” she said shortly. “But I still regret it. The Hutts are criminals and slave traders, trafficking in misery to make themselves rich. They don’t care who they hurt, who they maim, who they kill. They’ll do anything, no matter how heinous, if they think it’ll gain them an advantage or fill their coffers. They’ll help us today and double-cross us tomorrow, if there’s a better profit to be made.”
“But if doing a deal with them keeps the Outer Rim hyperlanes safe from the Separatists, well… I mean, we can’t afford to lose any more. We need those hyperlanes, Padmé.”
She sighed. “I know that. And the Jedi wouldn’t have brokered the deal if there’d been another choice. This alliance offends them as much as it offends me. Nobody is more aware than they are of the suffering the Hutts cause.”
He considered her. “There’s not much you don’t know about the Jedi, is there?”
“I wouldn’t say that,” she said, blushing. “I’ve just had a little more to do with them than most people, that’s all.”
She certainly had, he knew. Fighting with them on Naboo. On Geonosis. She was practically an honorary Jedi herself. “I suppose your experiences have given you a unique insight into them,” he said thoughtfully. “Which is good. You can translate. Because I think the rest of us just find them… a little strange.”
“Strange?” she said, indignant. “They’re not strange, Bail. They’re brave and resourceful and—”
“Well, well,” said a drawling voice. “Look at the pair of you, cozy as can be. What have we here, then? An impromptu meeting of the Security Committee? Where are your colleagues? You two mustn’t do all the work, you know.”
It was Palpatine, drifted over to them in his official platform. Alone now. Mas Amedda must have bustled off to take care of more administrative detail.
“Chancellor,” said Padmé, standing. “No. No, we were just chatting.”
Bail, standing with her, nodded. “About the Jedi,” he added. “And how much we owe them.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Palpatine, enthusiastic. “A debt I hope someday to repay in full. Well, I shan’t interrupt any longer. It’s getting late, and I have things to do.”
“Late?” said Padmé as Palpatine drifted away. She looked at their platform’s chrono. “Oh no. I’m late. Bail, I’m sorry. I have to go.”
“Yes—of course—go,” he said, bemused by her sudden alarm. “I’ll see you—”
But he was talking to thin air. For a dignified woman, she could certainly run when she needed to.
Ah well. Grinning to himself, he departed the hall for his Senatorial office, where a mountain of datapads awaited his attention.
Chapter Five
Mace Windu leaned forward in his Jedi Council chair, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped between them. “And you’re convinced that this request is genuine?”
Obi-Wan nodded. “Yes. I am.” He looked at each Jedi Councilor currently resident in the Temple—Yoda, Oppo Rancisis, and Saesee Tiin—then back to Mace Windu. “I trust Dex implicitly. If you recall, it was his information that led us to Kamino.”
“Any hint did he give you, Obi-Wan, of what he has learned?” asked Yoda, his eyes half lidded and intent.
“No, Master Yoda. He wouldn’t risk divulging any details, as we were speaking over an unsecured comlink.”
“Then whatever he knows, he thinks it’s dangerous,” said Mace Windu. “Which means meeting with him might also be dangerous. Especially if this is some kind of trap.”
Obi-Wan considered him. He has changed since Geonosis. Dooku’s defection to the dark side has changed him. And the deaths of so many Jedi, whom he could not protect. I have never known him so cautious, so suspicious. So willing to see danger in every shadow.
“Master Windu, if you are suggesting that Dex would betray me, I must respectfully disagree. The Jedi have no greater friend.”
The Councilors exchanged swift glances, then Mace sighed. “W
hat do you think, Master Yoda?”
“That in these dark times no offer of help can we afford to ignore,” replied Yoda. “Victorious we were at Christophsis, but defeated we have been at Selonia, Carida, and Garos Four. Another victory do we quickly require. Meet with Dexter Jettster you will, Obi-Wan. But precautions you will take, in case Master Windu’s suspicions prove correct.”
Obi-Wan bowed. “Yes, Master Yoda.”
“Go now,” said Mace Windu. “The sooner we know what your friend has discovered, the better.”
Another swift exchange of looks between the Jedi Masters. Obi-Wan felt a shiver of apprehension. “Has something happened? Something new?”
Yoda sighed. “Word we have just received, Obi-Wan, that three more hyperlanes have fallen to General Grievous.”
Obi-Wan felt the name run through him like a lightsaber. Grievous. Part machine, part sentient. All murdering monster. Sworn to the destruction of the Republic. The Jedi.
“That makes six in the last month,” said Mace Windu. “It’s very bad news.”
Bad? It was devastating. “Which lanes this time, Master?” Obi-Wan asked.
“Crucial routes leading to Bespin, Kessel, and Mon Calamari.”
“So supplies of Tibanna gas and Kessel spice are jeopardized. Which will lead to civilian suffering once the shortfall of supply is felt. And those Mon Calamari who are driven home to spawn will not be able to answer the ancient compulsion.” Obi-Wan frowned. “A bold move. Tactically ingenious… and unspeakably cruel. Perfectly in character for Count Dooku and his henchman.”
Above all things a Jedi Master was serene, never overruled by strong emotions. That was the ideal. But Obi-Wan sensed a sourness ripple through the Force as the Jedi Council recoiled from that name. The echoes caused by Dooku’s willing fall were a long way from fading.
He bowed. “Masters, I’ll find Dex and report back to you as quickly as possible.”
He headed to the Temple docking bay complex and signed out a plain, serviceable citibike, one guaranteed not to attract undue attention. He couldn’t help thinking what Anakin would say if he could see the dull brown paintwork, the dents, the scattered spots of rust. That heap of junk, Master? he’d demand, outraged and horrified. You’re going to scoot about Coruscant on that piece of junk? Where’s your pride? You’re a Jedi! This isn’t right!
