by Karen Miller
If Grievous takes Bothawui despite its existing defenses, the Republic will be crippled. Without the Bothan information network we’d have lost Christophsis as well. The clone intelligence units show promise, but we have only a handful of them. And the Jedi aren’t spies.
The trouble was, nobody knew where Grievous was at this moment. Heading for Bothawui. How helpful was that? Dooku’s blunt instrument and his droid army could approach the Bothan system from half a dozen different hyperlanes, and the Jedi had no hope of patrolling them all. Even so early in the campaign against the Separatists, the Republic’s clone army was already stretched thin. And Kamino couldn’t speed up clone production because the quality of the troops it created, that crucial edge, depended on slower maturation.
We need more intelligence.
If for no other reason than Dex’s warning was so vague. That frightened him, too. Because what if the Council didn’t believe it? What if Dex’s lack of specific detail meant they discarded the informant as unreliable? Did he carry enough weight with them that they would trust him as implicitly as he trusted Dex? Or would they demand that he return to his friend and pressure him until his source was revealed, so she could be apprehended and interviewed?
Please, no. Not that. I couldn’t do it. I’d be betraying him. Please let them trust me. Let them not ask me to do that.
The trouble was, with Yoda one never knew precisely what he’d ask. The Order’s most venerable Master was as much a maverick, in his own way, as Qui-Gon had ever been. And he was a thousand times less predictable. One moment kindly and comfortable, a friend. The next a coldly implacable and ruthless taskmaster. And the shift from one to the other could happen within the blink of an eye.
I’ll just have to convince them. I’ll have to make them believe.
He could see the Temple now in the distance, so beautiful in the bright sun. Despite everything, he felt the familiar catch in his throat that told him you’re nearly home. Not a Jedi-like emotion, but he was quite sure he wasn’t the only one who felt it on first catching sight of those four splendid, soaring spires and the dominant central tower.
Now he was racing through the administration sector, between rows and rows of offices housing the thousands of workers who helped keep the ponderous wheels of the Republic turning. That was when he felt it: a violent tremor in the Force, a lightning-strike of dark emotion: terror and hatred and triumph and rage. Abrupt, annihilating, it seemed to come from nowhere.
And then the explosions.
The light came first, a bright blossoming of scarlet and orange edged in black. Directly below him. Off to his left, then his right. Straight ahead. Hard on their heels came the shock waves, as though an invisible hand had seized the air and shaken it like a blanket. The waves blasted over him in scorching roils of heat, flinging his citibike end over end. Last of all the dreadful sound, a deep and rolling boom boom boom boom, the echoes multiplying and magnifying as they bounced from building to swaying, shuddering, disintegrating building.
And suddenly the bright Coruscant sky was full of metal debris and bodies, of airspeeders and maxitaxis and gracious air gondolas, tossed like leaves in an unforgiving storm.
Helplessly tumbling, Obi-Wan summoned the Force and wrenched his citibike aside just in time to avoid a burning two-seater… and was struck from behind by an out-of-control speeder bus laden with screaming passengers.
Pain. Surprise. A detached and baffled anger. This can’t be right. No, no, this is wrong.
Yet still he was falling… and falling… and—
Chapter Six
“More chee-chees, my darling?”
Anakin looked at the stemful of luscious purple berries Padmé was dangling so tantalizingly above his lips.
“Mmmm,” he said, then flung his arms around her. “I can think of something tastier than chee-chee berries!”
Squealing with laughter, she let him tumble her to the sheets, mock-protesting as his embrace crushed the fragrant fruit against her skin. Didn’t protest at all as he savored the sticky juice, the fragrance of her, let himself fall headfirst into their shared, secret passion.
My love, my love, my own true love.
Only when he was with her did the ache in his heart ease. Padmé made sense of his life: without her all was chaos, violence, the agony of loss. Sometimes, often, he marveled that Obi-Wan never suspected anything. How could he love Padmé so greedily, yet keep that devouring love hidden from the man who knew him best?
I guess I really am a powerful Jedi.
He muttered a protest as Padmé pressed her palms to his chest, holding him back. “Wait. Wait.”
“Don’t want to wait,” he muttered. “You made me wait yesterday. I waited too long.”
She laughed, but didn’t drop her hands. “Anakin, seriously. There’s nothing I’d like more than to stay here with you all day, but I can’t. I have a holoconference with Queen Jamillia in less than an hour. And don’t you have an apprentice to train?”
“I am training her,” he protested. “I’ve given her instructions and she’s following them without question. That’s very important training for a Padawan.”
She pulled a mocking face. “Very important training I think you neglected.”
“That’s not fair,” he said, though he had to grin. “I only ever disobeyed Obi-Wan when he was wrong.”
“Apparently he was wrong a lot,” she retorted, then giggled. “I wonder if your apprentice will hold the same opinion of you?”
“She’d better not,” he said. “Not if she knows what’s good for her, anyway.”
“Oooh, so stern! Such a taskmaster you are, Master Skywalker!”
There was that unlikely title again. Except he didn’t mind it so much when Padmé used it. He didn’t mind anything when they were together.
With a regretful sigh she kissed him softly on the lips, then slid from the bed. “I’m sorry, Anakin, but I do have to go.”
He loved her in every way, but best like this: eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed, hair riotously tousled around her slender shoulders. Framing the heart-stopping perfection of her face. She was so many women it was hard to keep track: the regal Queen, the feisty Senator, the fierce champion of peace…
My wife.
He only had to look at her and the burden of guilt he felt about living this lie, deceiving Obi-Wan, betraying the vows he’d taken with such solemn intent, eased almost to vanishing.
Because this is right. We belong together.
Grudgingly, he sat up. “Yes, you have to go, and so do I. If I return to the Temple too much later, Ahsoka will start a panic looking for me. And that’s the last thing either of us needs.”
The brilliance of Padmé’s eyes dimmed a little. She rarely spoke of it, but he knew their secret burdened her, too. Even though she swore she had no regrets. Even though she’d felt no more compunction than he had in breaking the Jedi’s uncompromising code.
It’s knowing they’re wrong and being unable to shout it from the top of the Temple’s spires. That’s what’s hard. It’s having to hide and pretend and only live half a life together. But it won’t last forever. When the war is over, we’ll come out of the shadows. When the war is over, everything will change.
“What?” she said, frowning. “You look so serious all of a sudden…”
He bounced to his feet. “Indigestion,” he said. “Race you to the shower!”
Afterward, dressed and almost ready to take his reluctant leave of her, he stood on her apartment’s veranda watching the hypnotic crisscrossing of traffic. There was something almost soothing in the steady, ceaseless movement. It had taken him a long time to get used to Coruscant. As a child he’d missed the desert terribly, missed its silence, its stillness. The breathtaking sweep of stars overhead. He’d dreamed so often of visiting them… setting foot on other worlds, a free boy. A free man. A Jedi.
That dream came true. Others will come true, too. Good dreams, not just bad. The future’s mine to make.
Across the cityscape, dominating the skyline, stood the Jedi Temple. Padmé thought he didn’t know how often she stood on this same spot and looked toward it, thinking of him, longing for him.
He did.
Every time she thought of him, he felt it. Every tear she shed for their separation, he wept, too. There was nothing she could feel that he couldn’t—didn’t—feel with her.
And that’s what Obi-Wan will never understand. He thinks love can be discarded, like an empty cup. He thinks that it will pass, in time. He’s a blind man saying that sight doesn’t matter.
He felt Padmé behind him and turned, smiling. She was wearing her Senator face now, all laughing softness put away, that intoxicating fall of hair smoothed into neat discipline. The seductive silk robe had been replaced by a severely formal dark green dress that hid her completely, just as his Jedi tunic and leggings hid him. Turned them into symbols. Stole their individuality.
But we are more than what we appear to be, both of us. And what we have here, together, makes us better. Stronger. Invincible.
“When will I see you again?” she asked, smoothing his arm. “Tonight? I have a dinner with the Malastarian cultural commissioner, but afterward?”
He kissed her forehead. “A dinner? My condolences. Political talkfests like that are so—”
A stirring in the Force… a dark premonition…
“Tedious?” she suggested, and laughed. “Yes, but—”
He pressed his fingers to her lips. “Hush. Hush, Padmé. There’s something not right…”
… terror and hatred and triumph and rage…
A flash of light—gouts of flame—a shocking series of booms. Traffic erupting, spinning, impacting—and cutting through the chaos, through the maelstrom in the Force—
“Obi-Wan!”
As he tried to breathe, tried to calm his mind enough so he could find his Master, his friend, Padmé ran to the farthest edge of the veranda and stared at the pluming smoke, the leaping fires, four separate explosions somewhere close by.
“The administration sector,” she said, her voice taut. “The Central Court. The Court of Appeals. And I think—I think—the Senate overflow offices.” She spun about. “Obi-Wan?”
Shaken, he nodded. “He’s hurt. Padmé, I have to go, I have to—”
“Yes, yes, go!” she urged him. “I must go, too; I must get to the Senate. I’ll be needed. Anakin—”
“Oh, Mistress Padmé, Mistress Padmé!” cried C-3PO, tottering outside. “What’s happening? Is it the Separatists? Are we under attack?”
She ignored the droid, her face white. “Go, Anakin. Be careful.”
“You, too.”
Then she was running to the open doorway and he was leaping for his airspeeder. Their outstretched fingertips touched, in passing.
My love. My love.
He fired up the vehicle’s engine and wrenched away from the veranda, heedless of rules, of safety, of everything but the overriding need to reach Obi-Wan.
He’s not dead. He can’t be. I’d know if he was dead.
Scant minutes had passed since the first explosion, and now the city of Coruscant was reacting. The sky was full of halted and halting traffic, strident with the sound of sirens, screaming. Emergency vehicles converged on the blast locations from every direction, air ambulances and security and traffic control and disaster crews. He could see debris scattered and floating, the remains of ruined maxibuses and airspeeders and the like, their repulsorlift units still working. The air was hazed and stinking with smoke. And almost lost within the racket of the sirens, desperate pain-filled cries of the people injured in this cowardly attack.
Anakin closed his ears and heart to them, narrowed his focus until he could hear only one voice. Feel only one jagged, thrumming presence in the Force.
Hang on, Obi-Wan. Don’t let go. Don’t you dare.
It was the race to find and save his mother all over again. He could feel Obi-Wan’s pain, his semiconscious confusion, his fear. It shouted through the Force at him, scraping his nerves raw, waking his own fears, his own terror of loss. It summoned him like a beacon, like a bonfire in the night.
An emergency services shuttle dropped out of the sky beside him. “All Coruscant traffic is in emergency lockdown!” a metallic voice blared. “You are ordered to power down your airspeeder. Repeat, power down your airspeeder or face arrest!”
Incredulous, Anakin stared at the pilot. What? Okay, it was possible there was a problem with his shuttle’s transponder, but was this guy blind? Couldn’t he see he was shouting at a Jedi?
“This is your final warning! Power down your airspeeder!”
No, apparently not.
One hand on the controls, not lessening his speed, he unclipped his lightsaber, flicked it into life, and brandished it over his head.
“Transponder signal confirmed. Apologies, Master Jedi.”
Yeah. No problem. See you later, poodoo.
On a deep breath, heart pounding, Anakin plunged his airspeeder nose-first toward the distant ground. Obi-Wan’s presence was weakening… fading… the outline of his spirit was starting to blur…
No! No! I will not let this happen!
Oblivious to the organized mayhem surrounding him, the destruction, the teeming emergency responders and their blaring horns and amplified voices, he flew like a blaster bolt to Obi-Wan.
The stinking smoke was really bad now, thick and choking. It was harder to see. But he didn’t need eyes, he had the Force. It guided him lower, prompted him to slow down, slow down, slow down again. To nudge his way left—more left—just a little more left—
There.
An open rooftop. Uncluttered. A few garden boxes, a fountain. Some kind of office retreat. Low benches. Shade cloths. A single shuttle pad. And there—a broken citibike. Beside it, a broken Jedi.
Obi-Wan! A citibike? What were you thinking?
Anakin dropped his airspeeder to the rooftop as though it were a brick. Force-leapt from the driver’s seat to land kneeling by his former Master’s side.
“Obi-Wan! It’s me. It’s Anakin. Don’t move.”
So much blood. Too much blood. Jedi weren’t immortal. Qui-Gon had told him that, then died to prove it.
Lying in a crumpled heap, awkwardly twisted, half on his side, Obi-Wan blinked slowly. His eyes were clouded, unfocused. His right cheek was deeply split along the bone. “Anakin…?”
Anakin leaned closer, too afraid to touch Obi-Wan’s burned, bloodstained hand. “Don’t talk. I’m going to call for help, okay?”
“Anakin…”
“I’m right here,” he said, even as he stood and backed away to the airspeeder for his comlink. “Don’t worry, Obi-Wan, I’m right here.”
Obi-Wan groaned. “Blast. I think I’m hurt.”
No kidding. Anakin cued the comlink to the Temple’s emergency frequency and activated it. “This is Anakin Skywalker. I need Master Yoda.”
A mushy hiss, then: “Master Yoda is in an emergency Council session and cannot be—”
“Get him now, you idiot! Do you hear me? Get him now!”
Sprawled on the rooftop, Obi-Wan stirred. “Temper, temper, Anakin. No need to shout.”
Somehow, though it nearly killed him, Anakin managed to smile. “Don’t be a spoilsport, Master. You know I like to throw my weight around.”
Obi-Wan exhaled, faintly smiling in return, and red froth bubbled along his pale lips. Seeing it, Anakin returned to his side.
“Anyway, I told you to be quiet,” he scolded, kneeling. “I think it’s about time you started listening to me.”
“Don’t be bossy,” said Obi-Wan. Tried to move, gasped, and lay totally still. “There was an explosion…”
“There were four,” said Anakin. “Please, Obi-Wan. Shut up.”
“I think I’ve broken something,” said Obi-Wan, his gaze restless. “No. Make that several somethings.” He glanced down at his charred, torn, blood-soaked tunic. “Well, that’s not good.”
> Anakin reached out a hand, risked touching it to Obi-Wan’s forehead. His skin was ice-cold. “You’re fine, Master. You’re going to be fine.”
“Anakin Skywalker, Master Yoda this is.”
Flooded with relief, he lifted the comlink. “Master Yoda, I need help. I’m with Obi-Wan. He’s hurt. He’s really hurt. The attack.”
“Bring him to the Temple, can you?”
“No, I don’t dare move him. I need a healer. I need lots of healers. Can you come? Can you hurry?”
“Where are you, young Skywalker?”
Anakin stared around him. “I don’t know. The administration sector. On a rooftop.”
“Your comlink leave open. Find you we will.”
“Yes. Good. Now hurry, please!”
He clipped his comlink to his belt and took a deep breath. Sweat stung his eyes, slicked his spine. Fear gibbered round the edges of his mind.
“Liar,” whispered Obi-Wan. “You said I was fine.”
“And you will be,” Anakin said fiercely. “But Obi-Wan, you need to save your strength.”
“Yes,” said Obi-Wan, his gaze now curiously introspective. “Yes…”
Not for the first time, Anakin cursed his lack of healing talents. How could he be the Chosen One and be so hopeless when it came to healing? It wasn’t fair.
“Anakin…”
Despairing, Anakin stared at Obi-Wan’s sickly-white face. What could be seen of it, that wasn’t bathed in blood. There was blood in his beard, from the awful wound in his cheek. That bloody froth, drying on his lips. He was damaged inside. Must be. What if he stopped breathing before Yoda could reach them? What if he went into convulsions? There’d been a Podrace crash once, a real messy pileup on the home straight. Larbo Nelik had been thrown clear, thrown right into the barrier. Broke herself to pieces, then convulsed and died as Anakin watched. His mother had wept, seeing it, and begged him not to race again. But Watto was the boss of things like that… and anyway, he loved it.
