The Clone Wars

by Lou Anders

  He grips her shoulder, and she hesitates.

  “That’s not what I want.” Anakin lifts his hand to her hair, sliding it down until it rests against the nape of her neck. Padmé is everything to him, the one person in his life he trusts implicitly, and he’ll be lost if she doesn’t know that. So he pulls her closer and kisses her, barely even registering the movement as her arm drops down to place his saber on the desktop. This is where he’s happiest, in the silo of a world where only he and Padmé are real. But all too soon his illusion is shattered, and she pulls away as voices carry into her office. He hears C-3PO and another muffled voice outside the door.

  “Quick, hide!” She steps back, and he stops himself from rolling his eyes again, picturing a reality in which they are anonymous and free to do as they like. He ducks down behind Padmé’s desk as Bail Organa’s insistence on being seen announces his arrival.

  “The situation cannot be delayed,” the senator says, his voice still slightly dampened by the barrier between them.

  As Anakin gets closer to the ground, he sees that his lightsaber is still on the desk. Fantasies aside, he can’t be found in Padmé’s office! But then he hears the scrape of metal when she swipes it and hides it behind her back. Organa’s voice is closer now.

  “Now stand aside.”

  The sound of doors sliding open hits him just before Organa’s voice, no longer muted behind the heavy metal, continues, “I apologize for my abruptness.”

  “Oh, Senator Organa, how good to see you. What is it?”

  Bail Organa won’t be able to tell, but Anakin can hear just a touch of nerves in Padmé’s voice. He pictures her glancing back toward him before catching herself. Organa’s clothes shift as he presumably bows to his fellow senator.

  “Senator Philo has called a meeting in the lobby before we vote on the Enhanced Privacy Invasion Bill.”

  “Right, Privacy Invasion Bill.” Clearly, the irony isn’t lost on Padmé. Should he risk a look to see?

  “We must hurry if we are to stop the vote.” Heavy footsteps start heading away, but Anakin hears the chime of Padmé’s necklace as she turns her head in his direction. Bail’s voice interrupts once more. “Coming, Senator Amidala?”

  “O-of course.”

  At that Anakin risks a peek and sees Padmé framed by the open door. She catches his eye, and he urges her on with a subtle glance to the right. Her lips turn up in a slight smile, and he realizes she still has his lightsaber. He laughs to himself. Not like he was going to be using it on a “meditative retreat” anyway.

  When enough time has passed, Anakin opens the door to Padmé’s office, intending to sneak out during the vote with hopes of meeting up with her later. As he steps into the hall, he’s plunged into darkness before a red emergency light blinks to life, coloring his features. Something doesn’t feel right.

  “What’s going on?” he muses out loud.

  The Senate hallways are far too quiet; he doesn’t see the usual guards walking about, and there’s a curious lack of the random conversations floating here and there that he’s gotten used to. The opulence of the building is stark without its typical liveliness. The emergency lights bounce off the floor in a way that does nothing to ease his anxiety. Where did Bail say he and Padmé were going? That’s where Anakin needs to be. He hastens his steps.

  He gets closer to an open atrium above the lobby outside of the Senate chambers, and Padmé’s voice breaks through the quiet.

  “—senator from Naboo, and I demand that you release us immediately. The Galactic Senate will not treat with terrorists.”

  He creeps toward the balcony in the darkness and uses one of the large pillars the Senate building is known for to stay hidden. As he spies the scene below him, Anakin takes the situation in instantly. In the middle of the foyer, armed bounty hunters are surrounding a huddled mass of frightened senators, his wife among them. One of the hunters stands in the center, back to Anakin, holding themselves like a leader. There’s something familiar in the wide-brimmed hat and stance that pricks at the edge of Anakin’s brain…a memory…something particular about the ease with which the hunter holds the blaster, as if it’s an extension of their hand—a blaster, he notices, that is far too near Padmé’s face for comfort.

  Anakin sets his jaw as he grits his teeth and glares at the figure in the hat, who has closed in completely on Padmé’s space, gripping her chin. A part of him is pleased to see there is no fear in her gaze, only disgust. They’ve been through enough action together that he knows that curl of her lip too well. But the rest of him bristles at this stranger daring to threaten Padmé. The memory starts to clarify just before the mysterious bounty hunter starts speaking.

  “Ain’t you awful young and pretty to be a senator?”

  That voice confirms it. Cad Bane. In his mind’s eye, Anakin sees Ahsoka collapsed behind an orange force field, Bane standing guard in a gross mockery of a protective servant. He sometimes hears Bane’s modulated tones from that time, when he considers the potential of loss. “Do you think you can kill me and then save her before she is pulled out into space? It’s a horrible way to die.”

  If Bane thinks for a second he can—Before Anakin can finish that thought, Padmé’s eyes drift to him for the briefest moment, and Bane twirls around and starts shooting. The sound of blaster fire fills the room and Anakin takes off, the heat of the lasers following in his wake. What he wouldn’t give for that lightsaber he’s sure is still hidden in Padmé’s sleeve. He sends a thought up to fate for his great romantic timing. He takes solace in the idea, should it come to that, at least the lightsaber can protect her.

  “Skywalker! After him!”

  Bane might be even more upset by Anakin’s presence than Anakin is by Bane’s. As he runs, he knows that the bounty hunters in Bane’s employ must be coming after him. He pulls out the communicator hidden in his robes.

  “Hello? Come in. Anyone there?”

  But in reply there’s only static. He frowns. He’s on his own, trying to save Padmé—and the rest of the senators—from a bloodthirsty bounty hunter. He turns a corner and stalls; at the other end of the hallway, two of Bane’s crew fly onto the scene: a Weequay and an assassin droid. Totally in his wheelhouse. Easy. Out of instinct, he reaches for his lightsaber, grabbing air where it should be hanging at his hip.

  “Uh-oh.”

  The words are barely out of his mouth when the first two shots go off. He feels the heat of the lasers singe his hair as he ducks his head down to avoid a face full of fire. He stumbles back. Time to run.

  He manages to outpace his pursuers, leaping past empty rooms to hide behind a column so when they finally catch up, it seems as if he’s disappeared entirely. He hears one of them—the Weequay—hush a BD-3000 as they poke into the rooms for any sign of Anakin. The click of the assassin droid’s feet gradually comes to a halt as it enters another room. The search has slowed them down, but he still needs to act fast. He finds an empty senatorial office with an open door and slips inside.

  What does he need more than anything: a weapon, but the odds of finding a spare blaster are unlikely. What’s next?

  Allies. He needs allies. He needs strong allies. And the way to allies is contact. The office is low-lit, only the emergency lights from the hall behind him giving guidance. His shadow falls on the circular console in the corner of the room, and Anakin rushes forward to pull open a hatch on the desk. Inside he finds the multicolored wires of a communications hub. Maybe his and Padmé’s luck is turning.

  He pulls out his communicator again. He can probably find a way to talk to someone if he can put his communicator and this older tech together. He’s always been good at fixing things. He can fix this.

  Anakin snaps his machine in half to expose its insides and it sparks, letting out a too-loud whine. He stills his hands and whips his head toward the door. The footsteps are getting closer. The crank of the assassin droid’s limbs starts to echo inside the senator’s office. There’s not much time now. He yanks
a long gray wire out of the console, ignoring the bits of electricity it spits in his direction, and hardwires it directly to his communicator. He presses the center button; it beeps once and lights up.

  “This is General Skywalker, Chancellor Palpatine. Can you hear me?”

  The response is immediate. The Chancellor’s voice crackles through.

  “My dear boy, I’m glad to know you’re there and all right.”

  “What is going on down there?” Anakin’s voice raises of its own accord. He’s been away from the hostage senators—from Padmé—for too long already.

  “They’ve sealed the entire building. Nobody can get in, and we cannot get out. It’s up to you. You have to get to the power control room and turn off the security seal.”

  As the Chancellor speaks, Anakin can hear movement directly outside the doorway. This is, at the very least, a plan. But he needs to survive the next thirty seconds to make it. He disconnects his communicator and hides behind the console. Harsh spots of white hit the wall behind him, lights from the droid’s eye and the Weequay’s gun. The bounty hunters move their beams this way and that along the office wall as if they’ll find Anakin just standing there, next to one of the decorative flower vases. It won’t be long before they move deeper into the room and see him hiding. He can’t persuade a droid to move along, but he can do something about the Weequay. He lifts his arm to channel the Force.

  “You have two more floors to check,” he whispers.

  “Come on, we have two more floors to check,” the Weequay repeats. The droid follows him, and they leave. Anakin pokes his head up and over the desk to watch their retreat, biting back an exhalation of relief. Now he needs to get to the power control room, on his terms.

  He waits a beat and then follows Bane’s crew out of the room, letting them take a far lead before he trails in their wake. They separate at the stairs, the droid heading down a level and the Weequay heading up. Easy pickings. Anakin follows the droid first. He stalks it, softly sidestepping his way down the stairs, staying on the light-colored edges to deaden the chance of an echo. He stretches his arms, ready to use whatever tools he has. He finally takes a running leap, and the metal killer turns just as Anakin launches himself at it, fist out. Punching may not be the most elegant way to take down a machine, but needs must, and Anakin needs to take this thing out. Padmé is still on her own with Bane.

  The droid’s stronger than he anticipates and pushes back, but he’s able to pull at the droid’s weapon and now they’ve both got hold of the gun. It pushes Anakin forward, and he feels a sharp pain in his head as he’s dragged through three heavy pots.

  This is taking too long.

  The Weequay won’t be long checking the upstairs floor, and Anakin can’t take on two hunters without a weapon. He’s almost got the blaster away when the droid curves the barrel back up and toward Anakin’s chest. In furious urgency, he uses the Force to slam the droid against the opposite wall. It crumples and falls, and before it can get back up, Anakin is on it, swinging the heavy metal of the gun against its head until sparks fly and it stops moving.

  The Weequay is almost upon him; Anakin leaves the droid prone on the ground and takes off. He might not have his lightsaber, but he can still win. The galaxy knows that a Jedi with a lightsaber is a dangerous thing. It should learn that a Jedi without one is no less so.

  After a while, the halls of the Senate start to bleed together, each one gold-and-blood-toned in the emergency lights. But he’s close to the power control room, finally. From the feel of it, the Weequay’s given up on him. Good, he could use a break. He runs down the final gallery, slowing to turn the corner in case Bane has posted guards outside the control room’s doors. He has a momentary sense of relief when he sees no one, before the doors slide open with a hiss and an eye-patched Patrolian strolls out.

  He can’t even get a curse out before he’s off, running to catch the fishlike alien before he—But it’s too late, the Patrolian jumps and spins around to duck back into the room, door sliding shut behind him. Anakin desperately presses the button, but no luck. It’s locked, and without his Jedi lifeline, he can’t cut through the metal of the door. This may take some time, time he isn’t sure he has.

  Anakin grits his teeth and bangs on the door again. The other side is silent. He tries re-pressing the buttons.

  “Come on. Open the door. I won’t hurt you.” He’s deeply focused on this task, on getting into the control room and saving the day, and saving the woman who is his everything. His senses fail him then, and he’s surprised to hear a voice behind him.

  “Well, well, what have we here?”

  The Weequay has found him and has a blaster trained directly at the back of his head. Anakin doesn’t hesitate. He rises and turns, and faster than he knows the Weequay can follow, Anakin Force-pulls the blaster toward him and retrains it on the bounty hunter. Amateur.

  His target raises his hands half-heartedly before grinning and ducking down to reveal another bounty hunter with a sniper rifle already firing. She shoots the gun right out of Anakin’s hand.

  “Blast it!”

  He dodges her fire one, two, three times! Then the door behind him opens and the Patrolian is at his back. He feels the intense pain of electrocution and a quick flash of fear and failure. And then, nothing.

  Anakin’s eyes open slowly. What is he doing lying down? Why was he sleeping? A warm light fills his vision. His gaze focuses and he sees Padmé hovering over him. She looks worried and frightened. It feels wrong.

  He brings his arm up to comfort her and notices that his wrists are cuffed. “What are you lookin’ so sad about?”

  But she takes his hand and stops him before he can make contact, softening her deflection with a smile. They are not alone. Everything comes back to him in a rush as one of the Rodian senators starts speaking.

  “The bounty hunter said we should just sit here. I think we should just sit here.”

  Padmé pulls Anakin up, and he notices the crisscross of red lasers and explosives surrounding them. Cad Bane and his team are nowhere in sight.

  “Well, that’s not a very good idea,” he scoffs. This whole day has been one disaster after another. “It’s too bad I don’t have my lightsaber.”

  “You mean this.” Padmé pulls the saber out of her sleeve. “I found it where you dropped it.” A necessary lie for their audience’s benefit. He flashes her a small conspiratorial grin. Padmé presses the power switch and the blue blade fills to its height. Despite knowing how differently the day could have gone if he’d held on to the weapon, he feels nothing but love as he sees Padmé’s skin reflect the light of his saber.

  She releases him from his bonds, and he takes the weapon from her, the hilt comfortable in his hands.

  “Now, quickly! We don’t have much time.” This much he can do. He stabs his blade into the ground, the fabric and metal glowing molten orange as he rushes in a circle around the senators. Their energy starts to turn to panic as the buzz of the explosives heightens, but Anakin is fast. When the bombs go off, the floor beneath them is already dropping. They hit the ground with a heavy thud. Anakin bounds to his feet and finds Padmé first, offering a hand to help her up.

  “Another daring rescue”—she pauses briefly, and he wonders what she’d say if they were alone—“Master Jedi.”

  But they’re not alone.

  Even so, he’s with her, and she’s safe, and that’s enough for now. He smiles in the way he knows she can’t resist.

  “I do my best, Senator.”

  Anakin bows to his wife.

  IT ISN’T SUPPOSED TO BE ME.

  Padmé stands in her office, waiting to stride into the Galactic Senate chamber and try to convince her fellow senators to vote against a bill to commission more troops for the war against the Separatists. And all she can think is that it is not supposed to be her. She’s even convinced Bail Organa that she is the wrong person; she is still too new, too young, too partisan, proving herself—will she ever not be pr
oving herself?

  It is supposed to be Bail—trusted, respected, considered a voice of reason. Bail is the one they’ll listen to, and the bill on the table is too important for them not to listen.

  There is no end to the war in sight. Clones are being slaughtered, and the Separatists are gaining ground. The Republic keeps throwing money at it, throwing clones at it, not realizing that the war is a fire that treats everything thrown at it as kindling.

  The bill on the table not only would expand the war, it could bankrupt the whole Republic.

  It is supposed to be Bail. He has spent days on his speech. But here Padmé is, with mere minutes to decide what she is going to say, and all she can think is:

  It is not supposed to be me.

  Just days before it had seemed as if there might be hope, for the first time in so long. The Senate had convened an emergency session to discuss the disaster the war had become. And the fix on the table was the same fix as always: more troops. As if more troops had done anything thus far; the Republic ordered more clones, the Separatists ordered more droids, and the war grew bigger. That was how it would go, on and on, until everything was destroyed.

  But this time there was a new wrinkle: the Senate’s war funds were nearly extinguished; they simply could not afford more clones. Padmé had entertained a small hope that this, finally, might lead the Senate to discuss peace—but she should have known better.

  War is good business.

  The Senate should deregulate the banks so the Republic could borrow more money, proposed Gume Saam, whose Techno Union would profit from that same deregulation. Yes, that would mean the Banking Clan could do whatever they wanted, but wasn’t that a small price to pay for safety and freedom, exhorted Halle Burtoni, the senator whose planet produced and sold the clones.

  It was astonishing to Padmé that anyone took them seriously when their motives were so clear. But it was wartime, and profiteers masqueraded as patriots.