Stealth

by Karen Miller

  But months had passed since the property seizures, and the galaxy’s violent divisions were growing wider, not narrower.

  Still. The war can’t go on forever. Dooku and his cohorts must know they’ll fail in their efforts to bring down our democracy. It’s a thousand years’ strong. It can ride out this storm.

  Although… this wasn’t the first time he’d told himself that. And he was starting to worry it wouldn’t be anywhere near the last. Palpatine needed to tone down the optimistic rhetoric. The Jedi were being pushed to their limits and far, far beyond, and the Kaminoan cloning facility was struggling, as well. New clones were being deployed without the same depth and intensity of training as those who’d made up the original companies, most of whose soldiers had fallen in battle. That meant higher casualty rates, which in turn increased demand for replacements. It was a vicious circle that spun and spun with no sign of ceasing.

  If we don’t turn the tide soon, we’re going to get washed away.

  A chilling thought. To distract himself Bail stared at the glorious Coruscant sunset, bleeding into twilight at the edge of the world. Bands of purple and gold, and bold, shameless crimson, a welcome reminder that even in the midst of despair there was beauty to be found, if you looked for it.

  This far out from the densely populated city center and the admin districts the traffic was much lighter. Though he piloted a speeder with the most up-to-date sensors and crash nets, vigilance when commuting to and from the Senate Building was crucial. It was a relief to be able to relax a little, to sit back and let his gaze take in more than the rear bumper of the crammed-in speeder ahead of him, to let his thoughts wander. Sure, these days they had a tendency to wander down dark alleys, but at least out here, for a short while, he had the luxury of chivvying them in a slightly more cheerful direction.

  Like admiring a pretty sunset. I just don’t do that often enough.

  And why not? Because every time he turned around, the galaxy gave him something else to worry about. Like right now.

  He could not forget his workcase, tucked in the speeder’s luggage compartment and holding, locked inside it, his datapad, loaded with memos and statistical spreadsheets and reports. Lots and lots and lots of reports. As head of the Republic’s Security Committee, he felt he was in very real danger of choking to death on reports.

  But there was one in particular, buried amid all the others. Slow to reach him, its import had been ignored by the others who’d glanced at it in passing. On the face of things it was insignificant, almost irrelevant in the grander scheme of this conflict… and yet, for the life of him, he could not get it out of his mind.

  So much for admiring a pretty sunset.

  Eventually he eased his speeder out of the main traffic slipstream and into the restricted outer zone of the GAR hangar complex. And as the first of many security checkpoints scanned his speeder and personal ID chips he watched Pioneer, thrusters roaring, lining up for docking in the complex’s largest central hangar. The ship looked… wounded. Scorched and visibly damaged by Separatist weaponry, there was something subtly off in the thundering note of her engines. He could hear it. Feel it, tickling the nape of his neck. Of course he’d been kept apprised of the Kothlis engagement, and he knew the Republic’s forces had taken some brutal body blows. But reading a report and seeing with his own eyes what Separatist technology and ill will could achieve—those were two entirely different things.

  Blast it. They really got themselves hammered this time. Hope the final casualty numbers aren’t too bad. On top of the comm disaster and everything else we’re up against that’s the last thing we need.

  But that same prickly feeling on the nape of his neck told him this was one wish that wouldn’t be granted.

  By the time he’d threaded his way through seven more security checkpoints, surrendered his speeder to a junior warrant officer, and signed in to the hangar sector with palm print and retinal scan, Pioneer was down and settled and disgorging clone troops. Various officers and civilian-aid personnel nodded as he made his way onto Hangar 5’s uncomfortably crowded deck. The noise was cacophonous: health-and-safety warnings blaring, antigrav transports beeping, booted feet thudding, voices raised in greeting and warning and the acknowledgment of orders. The air was engine-hot, stinking of spent fuel and sizzled industrial lubricants. Announcements and orders blared over the echoing public address system, almost too garbled to understand. Or maybe it was because after the civilized gentility of the Senate his hearing wasn’t properly tuned in. From what he could tell, nobody else was having trouble following them.

  Laden with battle-weary clone troopers, the first convoy of ground transports headed toward one of the hangar’s four major exits even as the next batch of soldiers piled themselves into the first available empty—now, what was the nickname? Oh yes. Wheelbarrow. In the hangar’s harsh lighting their scorched, stained white armor glittered, and their fantastically dyed, clipped, and intermittently bald heads shone like beacons. They caught his attention and made him smile.

  At least they’ve got a sense of humor, these men. At least the war hasn’t taken that from them. Yet.

  A touch on his arm turned him. “Yes?”

  “Senator Organa!” It was the deck officer, a smudge of dirt on her cheek, her surprise almost amusing. “Senator—sir—I’m so sorry, I had no idea you were—there wasn’t anything in—”

  “Please, it’s all right,” he reassured her. “Lieutenant—”

  “Yarrow, sir.”

  “Lieutenant Yarrow.” He favored the tall, gangly officer with his best politician’s smile. “I didn’t call ahead. This is an impromptu private visit, nothing official about it. I just wanted to welcome home a friend.”

  “Sir,” said Lieutenant Yarrow, almost hiding her puzzled lack of comprehension. “Of course, sir. If I might ask, which friend were you—”

  He caught movement from the corner of his eye—a flash of the familiar. He looked around and saw a slight figure dressed in a scorched and grubby cream-colored tunic and trousers and brown boots, the attire at odds with the sea of white clone armor, flight suits, and naval uniforms surrounding it at the base of Pioneer’s main ramp. A silver lightsaber hilt dangled from its clip on a wide brown belt.

  He grinned. “That one. Excuse me, Lieutenant.”

  Obi-Wan, being Obi-Wan, sensed Bail’s approach and turned. A moment’s startlement, then a wide, genuine smile. “Bail! What are you doing here?”

  “Playing messenger boy,” he replied, hand outstretched. “And one-man welcome party.”

  “You shouldn’t have come all this way,” said Obi-Wan, clasping the offered hand briefly then releasing it. Smile aside, he looked tired, tension simmering beneath the surface. “We’d have caught up after tonight’s security briefing.”

  “No, we wouldn’t. Palpatine’s office bumped the meeting over to tomorrow morning.” Bail frowned. “Early. There was some diplomatic bash he’d promised to attend that got rearranged at the last minute.”

  “I see.” Obi-Wan was frowning now, too. “Odd that I’ve not heard about the change in plans from Master Yoda.”

  “That’s because I told him I’d tell you. It’s not a problem; I was done for the day anyway.”

  “How very organized of you.”

  “I do my humble best,” Bail said, with a small, mocking bow.

  Obi-Wan smiled, slightly. “Yes, well, I’m not so sure I’d call it humble.” Behind him someone called his name. “Sorry, Bail. Give me a moment.”

  “Sure,” Bail said. He stepped back as a clone NCO approached, bulky helmet tucked under one arm, a datapad in his other hand.

  “Sorry to interrupt, General,” the clone said. “But you wanted these final stats before you left.”

  “No, no, that’s quite all right, Sergeant,” said Obi-Wan, all brisk efficiency. “Let’s have them.”

  Whatever the news was, Obi-Wan didn’t like it. His face stilled as he read the datapad, and beneath the schooled blankness th
ere was anger and distress.

  Because they were friends, and because he’d come to feel a proprietary interest in this particular Jedi’s well-being, Bail took advantage of the moment to consider Obi-Wan more closely. Whatever action he’d seen on Kothlis, he hadn’t escaped from it untouched. Faint pink lines on his forehead and cheek suggested injuries, recently healed. His whipcord physique showed a suggestion of strain and discomfort. Small, familiar hints of pain. So he was walking wounded. Again. Apparently some things didn’t change.

  “Right,” Obi-Wan said at last, quietly, and tucked the datapad inside his tunic. “Thank you, Sergeant. I think that’ll do for now. You’re stood down, along with your men. Your efforts on Kothlis are appreciated.”

  The sergeant nodded. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. See you on the next rotation.”

  “Indeed.”

  Obi-Wan watched the sergeant join a batch of clones on a waiting transport. As it departed the hangar he let out a sigh. “Sergeant Fyn. A good man. Single-handedly saved half his platoon when they were pinned down under enemy crossfire.”

  Which likely meant the other half of the sergeant’s platoon hadn’t been so lucky. Bail felt suddenly awkward. Like a pretender. Moments like this were a painful reminder that he stayed safe at home on Coruscant taking meetings and reading reports while others bore the brunt of his detached decisions.

  “I know losing men is tough, Obi-Wan,” he said, hesitant, needing to say something but afraid that whatever he said, it would be the wrong thing. “At least we got a good outcome. You saved Kothlis.”

  “Yes,” said Obi-Wan, pensive. “There is that.” Then his expression darkened. “There would have to be that, Bail. We came close to emptying our pockets on this one.”

  “I can tell. You look beat.”

  Eyebrows lifting, Obi-Wan stared at him, frustrated exasperation flitting over his face. “Why do people keep saying that?”

  He nearly laughed, even though this wasn’t really funny. “Ah… because it’s true?”

  “I am fine,” Obi-Wan snapped. “And I will go on being fine unless one more person tells me that I look—”

  “General Kenobi?”

  Obi-Wan pulled a comlink from inside his tunic. “Yes, Captain Tranter?”

  “I’m signing off the flight log. Did you need to add anything?”

  “No. Thank you. How soon before you head out to Corellia?”

  “We’ll depart within the half hour, General.”

  “Well, here’s hoping your stay there is short and sweet. And again, my thanks for your efforts over Kothlis.”

  “It was a pleasure, sir. Happy hunting on your next mission.”

  “And you, Captain.”

  “I saw some of Pioneer’s damage when you came in,” Bail said as Obi-Wan flicked off the comlink transmit switch.

  “What’s the extent?”

  Obi-Wan sighed. “Far less than Indomitable’s—and Coruscant Sky’s. As I told you, this was a costly outing.”

  “I take it you’re avoiding Allanteen Six’s shipyards?”

  “Ah.” Obi-Wan’s eyes narrowed. “So you’ve heard.”

  “Oh, yes,” Bail said. “Espionage and an upgrade in Sep jamming technology? Trust me, the comlink channels were burning within moments of Yularen’s first report. There’s a task force up and investigating already.”

  “Good,” said Obi-Wan with a bitter satisfaction. “Do whatever you must to see they get results, Bail.”

  The hangar’s noise and activity level were starting to abate. The last of the clones were leaving, the deck crew squaring away equipment and detritus. Not wanting to be overheard, Bail lowered his voice.

  “So. How many men did you lose?”

  “Too many,” said Obi-Wan tightly, his eyes shadowed. “And dozens of wounded shipped off to Kaliida Shoals—including Anakin’s Padawan.”

  And that went a long way to explain the source of Obi-Wan’s distress. “I’m sorry to hear it. What about Anakin?”

  Obi-Wan flashed a fleeting smile. “Oh, he’s fine. Anakin has more lives than a Sullustan moonbat. And speaking of my former apprentice—excuse me for just one more moment.” He lifted the comlink again and thumbed the transmit switch. “Anakin. Anakin, do you copy?”

  “Skywalker here.”

  “What’s your status?”

  “Well, Obi-Wan, right now I’m upside down inside my fighter’s engine housing. What’s yours?”

  “I’m in Hangar Five, ready to return to the Temple. Have you forgotten that Master Yoda’s expecting us?”

  There was some grunting and a muffled curse. “Right. Look—can you cover for me? Only my fighter’s not the only one needing emergency first aid and they’re shorthanded here and—” Another muffled curse, followed by a bitten-off exclamation of pain. “Stang! You crippled barve-loving lump of—” Then a short silence, humming with tension. “Sorry. Obi-Wan, I have to stay and fix this. Hangar Three’s almost empty. We’re practically the only fighters in the place. If something comes up overnight—”

  Bail watched Obi-Wan close his eyes and shake his head before exhaling a slow, resigned sigh. “Yes. All right. I’ll make your excuses. But whatever else you do, don’t turn off that comlink. You might well be asked to join us via holoconference.”

  “Yeah. Fine,” said Anakin, sounding distracted. “Um—I might not be finished in time for the meeting with Chancellor Palpatine.”

  “That’s been postponed.”

  “Great. Sorry, Obi-Wan, I’ve got to get back to this. My manifold coupling’s about to fall apart. Just—make sure you get some rest, okay?”

  Bail struggled to muffle his laughter. Sparing him a single burning glance, Obi-Wan shoved the comlink back inside his tunic. “That young man is getting entirely too far above himself.”

  That young man was fast garnering a reputation for courage and brilliance under fire that was close to making him a Republic-wide celebrity. Anakin Skywalker. It was a name on many, many lips.

  Not the least of which are Palpatine’s. He couldn’t be prouder of Obi-Wan’s former apprentice if he were the young man’s father.

  But he decided not to share the thought, given that Obi-Wan wasn’t overly fond of their Supreme Chancellor. “You said Anakin’s Padawan has been hurt. Will she recover?”

  “Yes. I’m more concerned about Captain Rex and Sergeant Coric,” said Obi-Wan, passing a hand over his face. “The next day or two should tell the tale.”

  And now he really did look tired. Worn down. Weighted with grief and worry.

  “Come on, General,” Bail said quietly. “I’ll give you a ride back to the Temple.”

  Obi-Wan patted his shoulder. “That would be very nice. Thank you, Senator.”

  Cruising without haste through the darkened Coruscant sky, dribs and drabs of traffic leading the way toward the brightly lit admin districts, Bail looked sideways at silent, brooding Obi-Wan, then gave a mental shrug.

  On the other hand, sometimes a little impertinence is required between friends. And desperate times call for desperate measures.

  “Okay. I’m going to say this now, while I’m flying, so you’re less likely to pitch me over the speeder’s side.”

  Eyes half closed, Obi-Wan smiled. “You do realize I could pitch you over the side and keep control of this machine at the same time?”

  “Ah. So that would be the flaw in my plan.”

  Obi-Wan snorted. “Whatever it is you want to say, Bail, just say it.”

  He blew out a breath. “Fine. Here goes. You really do look tired, Obi-Wan. And not just I’ve had a few late nights tired.” He hesitated. “I’m talking almost dead tired.”

  “Bail—”

  “Master Jedi, I am warning you,” he said sharply. “Do not tell me again that you’re fine, or I’ll pitch you over the side.”

  Obi-Wan muttered something under his breath and folded his arms tight to his chest. “I’ve just come back from a major engagement, Bail. I think I’m entitled to be a littl
e weary.”

  “No. It’s more than battle fatigue. This war—the way you and the other Jedi are being asked to fight without decent respite. It can’t go on.”

  “It can and it will, for as long as the war goes on,” Obi-Wan retorted. “You’re the last person who should be surprised by that, Bail. You know better than anyone the truth of how matters stand between us and the Separatists.”

  “You’re right,” Bail said, slowing the speeder as they ran into the first hint of heavy traffic. Closer now, he could see the relentless glare of the city’s nightlife; a hint of music blew fitfully on the breeze. “And that’s why I’m concerned. There’s no quick fix waiting around the corner. We’re in this fight against Dooku and Grievous for the long haul and that means we need to conserve our assets.”

  Obi-Wan shifted in the passenger seat, staring. “Have you been talking to Wullf Yularen?”

  “What? No,” he snapped. “Stop trying to change the subject, would you? What I’m trying to say is—”

  “I know what you’re trying to say,” said Obi-Wan, sounding close to snappish himself. “And while your concern is appreciated, it’s not required. You seem to have forgotten that I am a Jedi, Bail, which means—”

  “That you’ve got juice the rest of us lack,” he said, scowling. “Like I’m going to forget that anytime soon. Look, I know how potent the Force is. I know how much you rely on it and the kind of difference it makes. But underneath all the flash and dazzle you’re still no more than flesh and blood. You’re vulnerable, Obi-Wan. And you Jedi have a bad habit of pretending that’s not the case. All I’m saying,” he added, more gently, “is don’t let having the Force in your arsenal lull you into a false sense of security. Don’t get into the habit of taking more credits from your bank account than you put in.”