by Karen Miller
Bail shook his head. “We don’t have that kind of time to waste. For all we know, this attack on the Jedi is imminent. Besides, if the Sith are as dangerous as you claim, you’d be crazy not to have someone with you. Even someone as limited as me. Now I’m going back to the cockpit to get some more work done. We’re about an hour and a half away from Zigoola. I’ll let you know when we’re ready to drop out of hyperspace.”
“Senator,” said Kenobi, halting. There was a nasty bite to the word, but as well as infuriated frustration his eyes also showed reluctant respect.
Well. That’s something, I suppose.
As he reached the compartment doorway he hesitated, then turned back. “Oh—yes. Just one last thing. I want your word you won’t try any of your Jedi mind tricks on me.”
Kenobi’s eyes chilled. “I beg your pardon?”
“Please. Don’t insult my meager, privileged intelligence. I have access to certain… classified material. When it’s convenient, or expedient, you Jedi… influence… people.” Bail let his urbane, polished mask slip then. Let Kenobi catch the merest glimpse of what he kept hidden. “But I give you fair warning: attempt to influence me against my will and I’ll show you what exploiting privilege looks like.”
Kenobi nodded. “Senator.” No reluctant respect now. They were back to hauteur.
Arrogant man. Insufferable Jedi.
“So do I have your word?” he persisted. “No funny business?”
Kenobi nodded. “You have it.”
“Thank you,” he said and, leaving Kenobi to his own devices, to meditate or dream or nightmare himself into unreason, who cared, he returned to the cockpit. Picked up his datapad, accessed his files on the latest Mimban dispute, and buried himself and his riled temper in work.
Obi-Wan watched Organa stamp out of the passenger compartment and swish the dividing curtain closed behind him. Then he closed his eyes and released a long, slow breath.
Politicians.
Practically always far more trouble than they were worth. And this one—this one was proving inconveniently stubborn. Uncomfortably astute. Because he was… afraid.
No matter how hard he tried, how deeply he meditated, he could sense nothing about Zigoola. And he should be able to. It was one of his particular talents, the ability to sense the shape of things to come. It wasn’t an infallible gift—the droids on Geonosis had taken him completely by surprise—but it didn’t fail him often. It certainly hadn’t failed him at the space station. This close to Zigoola he should be able to feel something. But all he’d achieved with his meditation was that one annihilating dream.
His skin crawled, remembering: the excitement of a field trip. His eagerness to impress Qui-Gon. His blithe self-belief, that this exercise would be so easy. He was a Padawan at last: no Agricultural Corps for him. Nothing was beyond him now. The dry Taanab wasteland beneath his running feet. The cool wind in his blindfolded face. How he’d let his attention drift, imagining Qui-Gon’s admiring praise. So stupid. And then the dirt beneath him crumbling. His body falling, striking the ground. A hot rush of embarrassment that he hadn’t saved himself with the Force. Followed swiftly by terror as the firebeetles attacked…
Breathing deeply, he wrenched his mind from the past. An hour and a half until they reached Zigoola. Hardly any time at all to unravel its mystery. To arm himself with something, anything, that could help him win this latest battle with the Sith.
He felt his belly tighten and his skin crawl again, this time with apprehension. Seeking comfort, he turned to the mantra he’d learned as a small boy, long before he became Qui-Gon’s Padawan.
Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering. Beware the dark side, Jedi.
Returning to his bunk space, he sealed himself behind the curtain and reached for the clarity recent meditations had granted him.
If I only try harder, I will see Zigoola. I will see what’s waiting for us there. I must see what’s waiting. We can’t fly in there blind.
But as he slipped once more into the first level of meditative trance, a whisper of pain began to throb in his temples…
The nav comp’s beeping roused Bail from the light doze that had claimed him. Still angry—although Breha would probably call it sulking—he looked around and shouted. Not in the mood to play humble messenger boy to a Jedi.
“We’re here! Zigoola!”
He double-checked the nav comp’s readings—good, definitely clear space—then disengaged the hyperdrive, easing them back to sublight speed. His heart was pounding. His palms were damp. As hyperspace began to warp and twist, stars emerging from its unreality, he heard Kenobi’s footsteps behind him and turned. Swore.
“What in—Kenobi, are you sick?”
The Jedi’s face was bloodless again, tightness pinched around his eyes and mouth. “No,” he said shortly. “A headache. It’s nothing.”
He was tempted to grab the man by his shoulders and shake some sense into him. “It’s not nothing. You look like you’re about to retch. Have you taken a painkiller?”
“I have not. Drugs, like alcohol, blur the Force.”
“And I suppose a megrim enhances it?”
Kenobi raised an eyebrow. “Keep shouting at me, Senator, and I will retch. All over your clean cockpit. Is that what you want?”
What I want is for you to stop being a Jedi, just for one lousy minute. Admit you’re human and accept some help. But that didn’t seem likely this side of a galactic miracle. Defeated, Bail turned around again. And sucked in a sharp breath.
Zigoola.
An ocher globe suspended against the dark. Bathed in the light of a mild yellow sun. Courted by three dignified small moons. Beautiful. Unknown. Full of secrets to be carefully unhidden. In the distance behind it, like a backdrop on a stage, a baleful, raging scarlet nebula. The intensity of its color took his breath away. Wild Space. He felt his heart thump his ribs, hard.
“Look at that, Master Kenobi. Isn’t that a sight?”
“Yes.”
Bail felt himself scowl. Well excuse me for being excited. I’m not a galaxy-trotting Jedi. I’ve never been this far from home. It’s a sight for me. Do you mind?
He snatched up the datapad into which he’d coded the coordinates from Alinta’s data crystal and punched their new destination into the nav comp. The machine hummed, then flashed green.
“Okay,” he said. “Local planetary destination is coded and locked. We’ll be guided directly to the Sith temple.” He glanced over his shoulder. “So. Do we go in?”
Kenobi nodded, then winced. “Yes. But with great care. And don’t forget to sweep for life-forms. We don’t want any unpleasant surprises.”
The man looked dreadful. Bail almost told Kenobi to sit in the comsat seat, but held his tongue at the last moment. They’d only have another argument. “You’re not picking up any Sith presence?”
“No.”
“And you’ve been trying?”
Kenobi gave him a lethal look. “Of course.”
Which would account for the megrim. Unless… “I don’t begin to know how this Jedi and Sith business works—and I know this sounds far-fetched—but is there any chance the planet’s making you sick?”
Kenobi blotted his face on his smoke-stained sleeve. “It’s a Sith haven, Senator. Anything is possible.”
That sat him up. “Really? Then maybe we should rethink this, Master Kenobi. I don’t want to—”
“I’m sorry?” said Kenobi, incredulous. “After demanding to accompany me on this mission then steadfastly refusing to turn back at every opportunity, now you’re having second thoughts? Now you want to give up and go home?”
Well… yes. Maybe. Because you look like death and I’m not a Jedi and you were right about one thing: we have no idea what’s waiting for us down there. But he couldn’t say that out loud. It was hard enough admitting it to himself. So does this mean I am what he thinks I am? Nothing but a pampered politician?
No. He wasn’t. “This is
n’t about me wanting to go home,” he retorted. “I’m just not sure how wise it is to continue if you’re not well.”
“I have a headache, Senator. I am not at death’s door,” Kenobi said grimly. “But were I blind, deaf, and lame I would still need to know if there’s a Sith threat to the Jedi down there. So let us proceed as planned. Agreed?”
Bail stared at the planet, so tauntingly within their grasp. Stared again at Kenobi. Felt his skin crawl with unease. How does the saying go? When in doubt, don’t? “You’re sure?”
Kenobi lowered his head for a moment, as though gathering his strength. Then he looked up and nodded. “Quite sure.”
“All right,” he said, feeling his heart thud. “But if the pain gets worse—if you feel anything else, anything—then we turn back. We think of another way to do this. Deal?”
“Deal,” said Kenobi tightly, taking hold of the comsat chair. Didn’t sit, though, no, he was too kriffing stubborn for that.
Bail shook his head. Jedi. “All right,” he said. “Here we go.”
Here I go, Breha. Wish me luck, my love.
He pushed them out of cruising speed, and the ship hurtled toward Zigoola. Moment by moment the planet seemed to expand until it filled the viewport. They flashed past its moons. Hurtled closer, closer. Breathing deeply, he eased back the ship’s speed, preparing to enter the planet’s exosphere.
“How’s the headache, Master Kenobi?” he asked, tossing the question behind him. “Are you all right?”
Kenobi grunted.
The ship’s bones vibrated, gently, as Zigoola’s highest atmospheric layer claimed them. His heart was beating so hard it felt like his veins would explode. He couldn’t drag his eyes away from the planetary surface so far below them, the cloud-swirls and the continents, the dearth of open water.
The nav comp beeped again, a minor course correction. Atmospheric conditions were knocking them around. He eased back the speed a little farther, mindful of making a smooth reentry, mindful that Kenobi was a pilot, and watching. Then he engaged the ship’s sensors and swept Zigoola for life-forms.
“Nothing human or humanoid registering,” he said. “Low-level animal and plant signatures. At least the life-support readings confirm the planet won’t kill us.”
Another grunt from Kenobi.
They slid through the ionosphere, gliding lower and lower toward the surface. Bail wanted to press his nose to the viewport, be the first to see their destination. The Sith temple. But Zigoola seemed abandoned: no civilization, no infrastructure.
No Sith.
So that was something, at least. He was worrying for nothing. They were going to be fine.
He slowed their rate of descent again, just to be on the safe side. Now he could make out tracts of scraggled woodland. Cliffs and valleys. Stretches of open, barren plain. Boulders scattered like marbles. Everything looked sere and lifeless. Inhospitable. Formidable. He glanced at the nav comp. According to the readout they were only minutes from the temple.
Behind him, Kenobi muttered something. “I’m sorry,” Bail said, reluctantly turning. “I didn’t quite catch—”
His heart punched so hard it nearly broke his ribs.
Kenobi was on his knees, his face gray, the whites of his eyes turned a gaudy blood red. Sweat poured off him, soaking his battle-scorched Jedi tunic, and he clung to the comsat seat as though it were his last hope of survival.
“What is it?” he demanded. “Master Kenobi—”
“Sith,” Kenobi groaned, his throat working, the long muscles in his neck standing out like metal hawsers. “Getusoutofherenow!”
Bail felt his mouth suck dry and his heartbeat stutter.
Sith? But Alinta said—she wouldn’t lie—I don’t understand, how could we get so close without you feeling their presence?
He reached for the helm, ready to pull the ship up. Felt his fingers close around the controls—and then cried out as an invisible hand caught him by the back of the neck, dragged him out of the pilot’s seat and threw him like a child’s rag doll down the length of the cockpit and into the corridor beyond. He struck the wall then fell to the deck, his head hitting the plating with a sickening crack. Bright lights burst before his eyes and reality spun on its crazy axis. Breathless, all he could do was sprawl on his back and stare at the green ceiling above him.
Kenobi? Was that Kenobi? What the kriff is going on?
Reality kept on spinning—he was falling—he was falling—
No. The ship was falling, it was diving without restraint or sanity toward Zigoola’s unkind surface.
Where’s Kenobi? Why doesn’t he do something?
Sweet-sour saliva flooded his mouth as he rolled first on his side and then to his knees and finally as he found his feet. Heaving, spitting, bile burning his throat, he staggered into the cockpit—and saw Master Kenobi at the helm, both hands on the controls, aiming their starship toward the unforgiving ground.
“Hey! What the stang are you—”
Kenobi’s fist came up, clenched to white knuckles. “I’m sorry.”
Bail cried out as that terrible power closed around his throat. He was a statue of flesh, a living man turned to stone. But he could still see. They were crashing into daylight. Into wilderness desolation. Death was rushing up to meet them.
“Sorry,” Kenobi whispered, anguished, one hand still on the helm. “So sorry.”
Bail’s ears were ringing. His vision blurred and darkened. Breha. Breha. “Don’t be sorry,” he croaked. “Do something. I don’t want to die.”
No response from the Jedi. Then Kenobi’s face twisted, and he began to shake, bone-deep tremors that chattered his teeth and shivered his hair.
Bail heard the man’s harsh breath, rasping. Come on, Kenobi, come on. You’ve beaten the Sith before. You can beat them again.
He stared out of the viewport, starving for air. He could count the trees now, they were so close to the ground. Count the trees, count the rocks, imagine the pain as they punched Zigoola’s grim surface. They flashed over something—an elaborate black structure—the Sith temple? Too late, they were gone, he’d most likely imagined it. Closer to the ground now—nearly there—nearly there—
Kenobi howled, a shocking sound of rage and pain. His hand on the helm controls wrenched their small ship’s nose up, dropped its tail, dropped speed, tried to undo what he had done. And then, still howling, he let go of the helm completely. Unfisted his other hand, finger by finger, and turned away from the sight of oncoming death. Blood was pouring from his eyes, his nose, his mouth. He looked like a bleeding ghost, blood jeweled in his beard.
Released from that pitiless fist, gasping, Bail flinched as the Jedi’s arms closed hard about him, smothered him like a desperate parent trying to protect his child. He felt a rush of heat. Felt the cockpit warp. Marveled at the way the air seemed to turn gold. Fear ceased. Anguish ceased. He felt safe and calm. Serene.
Breha.
And then the ship’s belly struck the first of the trees with a shriek like a cat’s claws along the metal hull. It ripped through their foliage, splintering their branches, shredding their leaves. The ship slewed wildly, like a maddened harpooned whale. As the strident crash alarms blared, the emergency impact bags deployed—but imperfectly. One ballooned out, one didn’t, and the ship began to roll. Bail felt the cockpit tip, slowly, felt himself and Kenobi obediently follow. Time slowed down, stretching like warm caramel taffy. With a sound as loud as the universe’s creation the ship struck the hard ground. Metal groaned and buckled. Transparisteel shattered. Flesh tore.
The golden light vanished… and reality disappeared.
Chapter Seventeen
Consciousness, grudgingly returning, told Obi-wan he wasn’t dead quite yet. Nobody who’d died could hurt this much. Piecemeal memory replayed the recent past in fits and starts; the sourness of defeat stung his eyes and churned his belly.
I should have fought harder. I should not have succumbed.
The voice had str
uck out of nowhere, a deafening shout rank with malice and hate. Battering his spirit. Annihilating his will. Ink pouring into a glass of clear water. Ink with blood in it. Ink full of rage. It was the voice of the Sith, smashing through his defenses as though they weren’t there.
Submit. Submit. Jedi, submit.
Only once before had he felt a darkness like it. Felt the dark side trying to turn his blood to sludge, trying to disrupt his light and brilliant connection with the Force. On Naboo, in Theed, fighting the red-and-black Sith assassin. But then he’d been able to resist that dark slurry. He’d been able to purge himself of its taint, and win.
But not this time. This time it was as though an army of Sith had bent their malevolent minds upon him. And though he’d fought against them, battled the shattering compulsion to fly the ship to its death… battled until he thought his sanity would give way… in the end, the Sith had won.
Jedi, submit.
The voice no longer shouted its hate and rage. But even in the silence, something bubbled in his blood. Something rotten. Something insidious. A creeping sense of dark decay. A lingering malaise, smoldering, patient, promising a later conflagration. With every breath he took, he could smell the stench of Sith. Zigoola was steeped in it. No wonder the place was barren. And I didn’t feel it. I was blind and deaf to it. A harsh truth to ponder, when he was able to think straight.
Memory stirred.
Organa.
Where was the Senator? Had he survived? He remembered Force-flinging Organa out of the cockpit. Remembered closing the Force around the man’s throat. After that—after that—
Did I kill him? Is he dead?
“Senator Organa. Senator, can you hear me?”
His voice sounded ridiculous, slushy and uncertain, as though he were drunk. Or at least how he imagined it would sound if he were drunk. He’d never been drunk, so it was only a guess.
Organa didn’t answer. Don’t let him be dead. “Senator Organa. Answer me, if you can.”
