by Karen Miller
Ten years in the Temple and still Anakin hadn’t outgrown his passion for machinery, or fallen out of love with beautiful speed. Probably he never would.
“Pride has no place in the heart of a Jedi,” Obi-Wan said aloud, earning a quizzical look from the requisitions droid on duty as it handed him the bike key. “The machine is functional, which is all I require.”
“Fully functional, yes,” said the droid. “That’s correct, Master Kenobi. Please be so kind as to return it that way this time.”
Obi-Wan touched two ironical fingers to his forehead. “I’ll do my best.”
Emerging from the docking complex’s artificial brightness into the sunlit Coruscant morning, he waited in hovermode until he was given entry to the pitiless slipstream of traffic that would lead him in circuitous, circumspect fashion to the Galarb district. That was where Dex presided over his profitable diner, a slovenly and benevolent dictator.
He felt slightly foolish, not selecting the most direct route, instead heading obliquely across the cityscape, virtually going in the opposite direction from his intended destination. But Yoda had told him to take precautions, so he did. It was for that reason he’d taken a citibike. Anyone who knew him knew he much preferred tackling Coruscant’s traffic in an airspeeder. Citibikes were so… exposed. No undercover Separatist thinking to follow him from the Temple—such an unlikely thought—would pay attention to this battered old bike. And to make doubly certain he wasn’t recognized, the hood of his cloak was tugged well down over his face.
But even if these precautions failed and some nefarious individual did try to follow him, without question he’d be able to sense them before they could cause him any mischief.
I’m in no danger. We’re allowing ourselves to become unsettled, that’s all. Therein lies the true danger. We must resist the temptation to give our enemies such power.
Except… Dex had clearly been nervous. And that was an unsettling thought all by itself.
The citibike’s transponder beeped, signaling his acceptance into the traffic. Thrusting aside this new, niggling worry, Obi-Wan swooped into the slipstream of private airspeeders, public transports, citibikes much grander than his own, barges and chopters and runabouts and maxitaxis.
And was compelled to admit, in the privacy of his own thoughts, as he gunned the engine, just a little, feeling the cool wind in his face and tugging on his cloak, that even though he did miss Anakin, there was a certain seductive freedom in speeding through Coruscant’s crowded sky with no life depending on him but his own…
“Obi-Wan!” Dex shouted, spying him through his diner’s kitchen hatchway. The Besalisk tossed aside his wipe-down cloth and emerged into the service area, all four mighty arms spread wide, ready to envelop him. “Hey, buddy! What are you doing down here? I thought you were too grand for the likes of us in CoCo Town!”
Bemused, Obi-Wan stared at him. “Too grand, Dex? I’m sorry, I don’t quite—”
“That’s right! Didn’t you know it? You’re famous now!” Vast belly quaking, Dex turned to his breakfast customers like a conductor to his orchestra. “Hey, everyone! Recognize this guy? You musta seen him on the HoloNet, his ugly face is everywhere! This is Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi, the hero of Christophsis! And before that Geonosis and Anoth! Come on, you mooches, a round of applause!”
Good-naturedly enough, Dex’s ragtag collection of loyal breakfast patrons abandoned their meals and mugs to snort and whistle and clap and slap their flippers on the tables. Obi-Wan bowed, awkwardly.
Well, this isn’t exactly the low-key welcome I was expecting.
And then he grunted, hard, as Dex crushed his ribs in an enthusiastic hug. “Play along,” his friend whispered. “You never know who’s watching.”
Play along. All right. He could do that. “What am I doing here?” he said, as Dex released his suffocating hold and stepped back. “I’ve come for a cup of the best chava chava in all Coruscant.”
Dex laughed, a rich, infectious sound… but beneath his joviality ran a tight thread of fear. “Is that right?” He grinned at his curious patrons. “Hey, I thought you Jedi types weren’t allowed to lie?”
Blast. What was Dex playing at? “Oh,” he said, and conjured up an embarrassed smile. “All right. You’ve caught me out. The truth is I didn’t think to check the charge levels on my citibikes power cell. I’m afraid it was either land here so you could give me a spare, or crash.”
Dex’s patrons snickered and giggled and made kindly rude comments in a handful of different tongues. “I take it all back, Obi-Wan,” said Dex, making up to the crowd. “You’re not a hero… you’re a rollicking noski.”
An idiot. That was nice. “Look, I hope you don’t mind, Dex, but I’ve parked the wretched bike out front.”
Another gravelly laugh. “No, I don’t mind, so long as you pay the fine if an inspector notices it!”
“Yes, of course. No need to worry about that. But I don’t wish to get you into trouble so… about the power cell?”
Dex hitched up his sagging trousers. “Sure, sure, I can spare you a power cell, Obi-Wan. But d’you mind waiting a little while? I’m still a bit busy.”
“Of course,” Obi-Wan said, all good-natured courtesy. “I’ll stand outside with the bike, just in case an inspector happens by.”
“Good idea,” said Dex, the genial host. “Take a rest from your heroics and I’ll be right with you.”
By the straightest line, the Galarb district’s CoCo Town was some forty-nine sectors distant from the Temple. The diner was located near the area’s main transport hub, which guaranteed Dex a steady stream of hungry customers. Pedestrians and groundcars flowed past without a break, heading to and from the main transport interchange. Multistory buildings towered all around the strip, but the diner itself sat in full sunshine, offering a panoramic view across the city-planet.
Obi-Wan lounged against the diner wall, enjoying the sunshine and idly perusing the faces of the passersby. It wasn’t long, however, before he realized he was being perused in return. And not just perused—recognized. Pointed at, whispered about, double-taked and noticed. Because, just like Dex said, he was a HoloNet star now.
It was all Palpatine’s fault. An inevitable result of the Supreme Chancellor’s relentless drive to put faces to the names of the Jedi fighting for the Republic’s survival. A drive that had culminated in the continuous looped reporting of the war via the HoloNet news service. And since the Jedi were playing such a prominent role in the conflict…
Yoda and Mace Windu had spoken forcefully against the notion, but Palpatine had been charmingly obdurate. The Jedi were heroes of the Republic, selflessly fighting in the name of peace. People should know this. Besides, only by making the Jedi known to every sentient on Coruscant, in the whole Republic, could they be sure of consolidating the groundswell of support for the fight against the Separatists.
“People cannot love an abstract,” Palpatine had said. “But thanks to the HoloNet they will come to love the Jedi. Masters, you must trust me. In this matter I know precisely what I’m doing.”
Yoda and Mace Windu had not conceded the argument, but somehow they had lost it anyway. And as a result Obi-Wan Kenobi had lost his comfortable anonymity. Acutely aware of the attention he was attracting, he flipped his hood back over his face and tried to vanish within the Force. Unfortunately it didn’t help much. He could still hear the whispering, the sound of feet slowing on the sidewalk as gawkers stopped to stare.
This is ridiculous. I should have insisted Dex meet me at the Temple.
In the faint hope that he could avoid further notoriety, he turned his back to the sidewalk and groundcar strips and began tinkering with the perfectly functional citibike. A few moments later a droid joined him, wearing a diner cap and carrying a fresh power cell and a clunky battered toolbox. “Dex says you need these,” it said.
He nodded. “Yes, I do. Thank you. Just put them down where you are.”
“Sorry,” said the droid. “D
ex says take your repairs around the back.”
Away from passersby, where there was a hint of privacy. “Oh. Of course.”
He guided the citibike to the rear of the diner, the droid clattering along behind him. It dropped the toolbox and the power cell on the ground and returned to work.
After a swift check of the surrounding buildings—no eavesdroppers within sight or sensing—Obi-Wan opened the toolbox and shook his head at its contents. A kind thought, to be sure, but since Dex’s hands were at least four times the size of his own…
He used the Force to help him swap out the power cells. A twist here… a nudge there… the Force’s might whispered through him, familiar as breathing. Sunk just below the surface of his surroundings, as he worked he became abruptly, acutely aware of Dex’s tightly coiled unease. Besalisks weren’t Force-opaque like Hutts and Toydarians, but they weren’t as easy to read or manipulate as were so many other of the galaxy’s inhabitants. Obi-Wan had long since accepted that, extreme circumstances aside, he’d never truly know what Dex was feeling unless Dex was comfortable with him knowing it.
Right now, though, Dex wasn’t blocking him… and he wasn’t consciously projecting, either. Instead he was leaking, an unpleasant muddle of fear and disbelief, oozing out of him like a noxious psychic sweat.
Without warning, Obi-Wan felt a shiver run through him, sickeningly familiar.
I have a bad feeling about this.
But he couldn’t pinpoint its source. Yoda was right; the dark side swirled around them like rancid fog. All he knew for certain was that his instincts, his intuition, his link with the Force, were driving him to leap to his feet and stare around him, hand on the hilt of his lightsaber, expecting trouble, expecting—
“That’s the breakfast rush over,” said Dex’s strained voice behind him. “I got a minute or three for you, Obi-Wan. Then I have to get back to the kitchen.”
Releasing a hard-held breath, deliberately relaxing his hold on the lightsaber, Obi-Wan turned to face his friend. “Was all of this elaborate setup really necessary?”
Dex’s deep-set eyes crinkled shut, then opened wide. His throat-pouch bellied, a sure sign of annoyance. “And when was I in the habit of wasting your time, Master Kenobi?”
Chastened, Obi-Wan nodded. “A fair point. I’m sorry, Dex. I hate to admit it, but I’m a little on edge.”
Leaning against the diner’s smooth back wall, Dex reached into his cook’s apron pocket, pulled out an Ambrian cheroot and a striker, and lit up. He inhaled deeply, then breathed out the fragrant pink herbal smoke.
“Christophsis was bad, eh?”
Obi-Wan snorted. “What makes you think so? By all accounts the HoloNet news footage was positively stirring.”
Dex squinted, considering him. “And so it was. I think they filmed it somewhere on Alderaan with a holovid company supplying the special effects.”
Obi-Wan stared. “Since when were you such a cynic?”
“War brings out my better nature,” said Dex, and stubbed out the butt of his cheroot on the diner’s Dumpster.
“Not this time it doesn’t. The footage was real enough, Dex. Those blasted droidcams were everywhere we turned. But I suspect what ended up being broadcast was heavily edited.”
Edited so the only death and destruction people saw was the death of droids. The destruction of fear. Slaughtered clones weren’t… photogenic.
“Of course it was,” said Dex, his cynicism still richly flowing.
“I don’t entirely disagree with the decision, you know,” Obi-Wan said gently. “The edited footage didn’t lie, after all. We were victorious. Eventually. But what’s the point of frightening people? The Core Worlds must remain calm and stable. You know that. Panic is contagious, and it spreads fast. If we let it take hold in the heart of the Republic, a great many people could be hurt. Even killed.”
“That’s true enough,” Dex admitted. “But if you make this war too neat and tidy, Obi-Wan, could be folks won’t mind how long it lasts. Then again, maybe it’s different for you Jedi. Being as how you’re warriors, and all.”
Stung, Obi-Wan shook his head. “That’s not fair. We didn’t ask for this conflict. It was thrust down our throats so hard we nearly choked. But we can’t not fight. The Separatists are willing to use the most brutal tactics imaginable to force separation on planets that have no desire to leave the Republic. They must be stopped.”
Sighing gustily, Dex nodded and scratched his chin. “You’re right. Don’t mind my crotchets, Obi-Wan. Seems you’re not the only one on edge.”
“You said you had some important information, Dex,” Obi-Wan prompted.
“You’d best get on with swapping out that power cell,” he replied. “Just in case we’re being watched.”
“We aren’t,” Obi-Wan said, but he went back to tinkering. “Dex, what’s going on?”
Dex reached for another cheroot. Lit it. Inhaled. This time he swallowed the smoke. Then he rubbed a hand across his face. “Could be—maybe—I know where you can lay your hands on that piece of chizk Grievous.”
Obi-Wan stared at him, heart racing. Destroy Dooku’s pet general and the war will be three-quarters won. “Where, Dex? Where is he?”
“Right now?” Dex grimaced. “Don’t know. But I know where he might be in the next little while.”
“Might be? Dex…”
“Intelligence isn’t a sure business, Obi-Wan,” said Dex, temper simmering. “If you’ve come for guarantees, you’ve come to the wrong place.”
“I’m sorry. But Yoda and the other Masters are going to ask me. I have to be able to say I asked you.”
Dex puffed furiously on his second cheroot. “They don’t trust me?”
“They don’t know you. It’s not quite the same thing.” With a final twist and a click, Obi-Wan connected the replacement power cell. Standing, he unkinked his back, then plucked the cheroot from Dex’s fingers. “You really ought to stop smoking these. They’re not good for you.” He dropped the herbal on the ground and pulverized it beneath his boot heel. “Now. About Grievous.”
Defiant, Dex pulled out a third cheroot and lit it. “There’s a whisper come to me,” he said, wreathed in a cloud of pink smoke. “Grievous plans on capturing Bothawui.”
Bothawui. Home to the Bothans, whose intelligence-gathering skills were legendary. Information was their greatest currency, and already their assistance had made a difference against the Separatists. Losing Bothawui to Grievous would make the stolen hyperlanes look trivial.
Let him be wrong. Let it be a mistake.
“Dex, are you sure about this?”
“My source is,” said Dex. “And she’s not new at this game.”
“And you trust her?” Which was a polite way of asking, Is she a liar?
Dex’s hands clenched. “I trust her.”
So. Not a liar. He didn’t bother asking for the source’s name. He and Dex might be friends, but the Besalisk was fiercely protective of the beings who fed him their dribs and drabs of information. What you don’t know, you can’t tell, was his stubborn motto. And who was to say he was wrong? The Jedi had long since learned such wisdom the hard way.
“Do the Bothans know what Grievous plans?” he asked, then shook his head. “They must. They’re Bothans. But why haven’t they told us, why haven’t they—”
“They don’t know,” said Dex. His eyes were cloudy, a sure sign of his deep concern. “There’s a good chance I’m the only one who does. Me and my source. And now you. It was an accident she found out. And she only risked telling me to pay back a life debt. Obi-Wan…” Dex’s voice had dropped to a whisper. “You Jedi can’t let Grievous get his metal hands on Bothawui.”
No, they could not. And now he understood why his friend was so afraid, why he’d refused to discuss this over a comlink. With such a prize at stake, the merest hint that this plan might become common knowledge would surely see Grievous slaughtering thousands to stop one…
“What else can you tell
me, Dex? When is Grievous expected to make his move? What size battle group will he take to the Bothan system? Can we expect—”
“I’m sorry, Obi-Wan,” said Dex, spreading all four arms wide. “I don’t know. If I did, I’d tell you.”
“I know you would.” Obi-Wan ran a hand over his beard. “Dex, thank you for this. The Council will be most grateful. We owe you the debt of many lives.”
Dex sighed. Suddenly he looked weary, and years older. “I wish I could tell you more, Obi-Wan. But I can’t, so you’d best go. I’ve got the lunch crowd to think about, and you’ve got an invasion to stop.”
Somehow Obi-Wan managed to smile. “Are you quite sure you wouldn’t like to change jobs?”
Dex’s answering smile was equally strained. “Obi-Wan, old buddy, not for a hundred million credits.”
They embraced, quickly, two comrades in arms saying farewell on the eve of battle. Or at least that was how it felt. Stepping back, Obi-Wan looked up into Dex’s somber face. “I doubt I’ll be on Coruscant for much longer. Even if I’m not involved in finding and stopping Grievous, there will be other engagements. The Separatists are merely catching their breath after Christophsis. The fighting will start again, perhaps within days.” He smiled. “So keep the chava chava hot for me, yes?”
Dex nodded. “And a seat empty, old buddy. May the Force be with you.”
“And with you,” Obi-Wan replied. Then, with a sober nod, he slung his leg over the citibike, kicked it into life… and shot into the Coruscant sky without looking back.
Abandoning circumspection, pushing the citibike as hard as he dared and exploiting without shame the special traffic privileges afforded him as a Jedi, he took the most direct route back to the Temple. Dodging and darting his way through the endless streams of traffic, plunging from one lane to the next, ignoring the shouts and horn blasts from those whose right-of-way he arbitrarily usurped, all he could think of was the implications of Dex’s information.
