Stealth

by Karen Miller

  “Jedi don’t have bank accounts.”

  Bail laughed, half amused, half angry. “Fine. Treat this like a joke. Treat me like a joke. I don’t care—so long as you think about what I’m saying. You don’t even have to admit I’m right. Just… try to cultivate some restraint, Obi-Wan. This Republic can’t afford to lose any more Jedi.”

  “On that,” Obi-Wan said with quiet intensity, “you’ll get absolutely no argument.”

  They continued in silence for a while. The tips of the Jedi Temple spires were distantly discernible now, their nav lights blinking. Coding a course change into the speeder’s onboard nav computer, Bail slipped into a different traffic stream. Obi-Wan stirred.

  “I thought we were going to the Temple.”

  “We are. I’m taking the scenic route.”

  “The scenic route,” Obi-Wan said slowly. “I see. In other words…” His arms folded again. “There’s something else you want to get off your chest.”

  He should’ve known he wouldn’t fool this man. “Yeah. Okay. So. Here’s the thing—and you have to believe me, I know how this sounds—there’s a whisper of something—some obscure intel—that’s come across my desk.”

  This time it was Obi-Wan who laughed. “You cannot be serious.”

  “Serious as a heart attack, actually,” he replied. “There’s nothing confirmed. No encrypted messages or shady operatives. No clandestine meetings. Just… I’ve got a bad feeling.”

  “Which is even more worrying than any number of encrypted messages, shady operatives, or clandestine meetings!” Obi-Wan tugged at his beard. “Very well. I know I’m going to regret asking this, but—what’s your bad feeling about?”

  Bail looked sideways. “Have you ever heard of a planet called Lanteeb?”

  Obi-Wan sat forward, elbows dug into his thighs, face hidden in his hands. “We are not having this conversation,” he said, muffled. “At this very moment I am asleep in the Jedi Temple having a nightmare.”

  “Hey, it’s not that bad,” he protested. “I happen to know where Lanteeb is and it’s nowhere near Wild Space. It’s a back-world of the Outer Rim.”

  “And that, of course, makes things so much better,” said Obi-Wan brightly, lifting his head. “We should take the entire Jedi Council there for a picnic.”

  Bail looked at his tired friend. “Did no one ever tell you that sarcasm is a very undignified trait in a Jedi?”

  Flinging himself back in the passenger seat, Obi-Wan pressed thumb and fingertip against his eyes. “I think you just did.”

  “Look,” he muttered. “Lanteeb’s not a Sith planet, it’s a ball of grass and dirt and not much else in the middle of nowhere. It has no strategic value or wealth of any kind.”

  “In which case, Bail, why do you care about it?”

  He shook his head. “No. The question you should be asking, Obi-Wan, is why do the Separatists care about it?”

  “They care about it?” said Obi-Wan. At last he sounded interested.

  “They do. In fact, nearly five standard weeks ago they took control of it. And I can’t for the life of me work out why.”

  The Jedi Temple was almost within spitting distance now. Obi-Wan, who usually stared at the place as though it were a long-lost lover, tapped fingers to his lips and ignored its existence. “You’re right,” he murmured. “That is indeed… curious.”

  “Yeah. It’s curious,” Bail agreed. “And these days the last thing I want to deal with is curious. Do you?”

  “Not particularly,” said Obi-Wan, very drily. “Who else have you mentioned this to?”

  “Nobody. I only read the report day before yesterday, and I’ve been buried in meetings and more urgent reports ever since. But it’s been nagging me, Obi-Wan. And I trust my instincts.”

  Obi-Wan spared him an absentminded smile. “As do I.”

  The speeder’s ID chip blipped a warning. The Jedi Temple, like the Senate Building, was part of an upgraded security net, and they’d just been tagged. Obi-Wan shifted his gaze, looking upon the ancient building with a vast and unspoken affection. Longing, almost. Did he know it?

  Bail checked that they had the all-clear then dropped into the dedicated Temple traffic stream. The automatic speed limiters overrode his onboard controls, dropping their rate of progress to little more than a crawl.

  “So,” said Obi-Wan. “What are you going to do?”

  He tapped his fingers to the speeder’s control yoke. “That depends. How long will you be on Coruscant this time?”

  “I’ve no idea,” said Obi-Wan. “There’ll be emergency meetings over Kothlis and its implications. And not only must we clear our ships of this computer virus and help track down the miscreants responsible, we’re going to have to come up with a countermeasure for this new Separatist jamming equipment—and fast. The danger they pose to our people is almost incalculable.”

  And that was depressingly true. “So you’d be free to come over for dinner tomorrow night? I’d like to talk some more about Lanteeb. Thrash out a few possible scenarios for why Dooku and his Seps are interested in it, and what that might mean to the war.”

  “You’re not raising the matter in the Security Committee?” said Obi-Wan, surprised.

  He shrugged. “The committee’s bogged down enough as it is. And like I said, I have no proof of trouble. All I’ve got are the hairs standing up on the back of my neck. And, well…”

  “Don’t tell me. Let me guess,” said Obi-Wan, torn between amusement and disgust. “Political complications?”

  The Temple docking complex swallowed them. Bypassing its public parking sectors, Bail swung his security-cleared speeder up and to the left, heading for the restricted zone. There wasn’t time to talk about committee entanglements, though he’d have welcomed Obi-Wan’s wry, sarcastic input.

  “A few complications, yes,” he admitted. “Let’s just say that for the time being I’d rather this stayed off the official table.”

  Obi-Wan nodded. “Understood. And of course I’ll come to dinner, provided I’m free. I’ll help you however I can, Bail, for as long as I can—though you’ll appreciate that’s not something I’m able to control. I could be sent back to the front lines at any moment.”

  “I know.” It wasn’t something he cared to dwell on. It would be a lot easier to fight this war from his office if he didn’t know some of the people fighting it on the ground. “And there is one thing you could do right away, if it’s not a problem.”

  “What?”

  There was never any lack of traffic in the Temple. Idling the speeder, waiting for the opaquely shielded transport in front of them to move along, Bail flicked his friend a look. “You could ransack the Jedi Archives for anything you can find on Lanteeb. Anything that wouldn’t appear in the Senate database or any public records.”

  “You think we keep secret files?”

  “Obi-Wan, I know you keep secret files.”

  Obi-Wan’s tired amusement faded. “Bail…”

  “Sorry, sorry,” he said. The transport moved on and he followed in its wake, looking for an empty bay to pull into. “All I meant was that you have resources I don’t. And you can poke around without raising eyebrows. I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  An empty bay revealed itself. “Things around here are changing, Obi-Wan,” he said, nosing the speeder into it. “The mood’s darkening. This war was supposed to be over by now. The fact that it isn’t is making people… well, I hate to use the word but I can’t think of another one. Paranoid.”

  “Are you telling me you’re being watched?” said Obi-Wan, incredulous. “Bail—”

  “I know,” he said. “I’m sounding paranoid. But I’m not. I promise. So you need to keep this Lanteeb thing quiet.”

  “Of course,” said Obi-Wan, nodding. “Although—I’d like to bring Anakin to our dinner meeting. He has excellent instincts and a unique perspective.”

  Anakin, the wonder boy. I wouldn’t mind a closer look at this paragon. “Sure. But
don’t tell anyone else. Not yet. Not even Master Yoda. All right?”

  “You really are worried, aren’t you?” said Obi-Wan, staring.

  “Or I really am paranoid,” he replied. “I guess only time will tell which it is.”

  Obi-Wan clambered out of the speeder and onto the concourse. “Indeed. Thank you for the ride, Bail. I’ll see you in the Chancellor’s briefing.”

  “You certainly will,” Bail said. He touched a finger to his forehead and backed the speeder out of the bay. It was time to go home, where brandy and a hot meal beckoned. And even though he was nervous, even though every honed instinct he possessed screamed there was trouble coming—he felt better. Because he’d told Obi-Wan.

  Crazy, but true.

  Chapter Six

  Fixing broken machines was like a meditation. Fixing broken machines was an antidote to every pain, every loss, every fear, every defeat.

  Fixing broken machines kept him from going mad.

  Hangar 3 was eerily quiet. After talking to Obi-Wan he’d sent everyone away: his clone pilots, the other mechanics, even the deck officer. Told them to take a little time off, relax in the mess, throw some darts, play some sabacc. Have some fun while they could, because who knew when the next crisis would erupt. Go on. It was fine. If anyone senior objected, he’d take care of it. And because he was Jedi General Anakin Skywalker, hero of the Republic, they’d obeyed—without too much reluctance, he’d noticed.

  The first thing he’d done once he was alone was call Padmé.

  “Master Anakin!” By some strange alchemy C-3PO, answering their apartment comm, had managed to sound delighted. “How wonderful to hear your voice!”

  “Hey, Threepio,” Anakin said, trying to appear casual, as though his heart weren’t pounding its way through his chest. “Is Padmé there?”

  “No, sir. I am sorry. Mistress Padmé is attending a diplomatic function on Chandrila. She won’t be back for another four days.”

  What? Stang. “Oh. All right. I guess I’ll have to comm her there and—”

  “Oh dear. I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Master Anakin. Mistress Padmé’s function—well—to be precise, it’s more like a sacred women’s retreat. No contact with men is permitted.”

  He’d stared at his comlink in rank disbelief, disappointment a clenched fist crushing his throat, his heart. “Threepio, is this some kind of joke?”

  “Joke?” The droid sounded offended. “Certainly not, sir. I can assure you Mistress Padmé takes her participation in this event very seriously indeed. It was a compliment for her to be invited. As I understand it, the Sisterhood of Ta’fan-jirah hardly ever permits an outsider to witness their—”

  “Yeah, great, fine, whatever.” With an effort he loosened his grip on the comlink. “Just—if she checks in with you, tell her I called. Tell her I’m home but I don’t know for how long. All right?”

  “Certainly, sir,” Threepio said stiffly. “I shall be sure to pass the message along.”

  “Good. You do that.”

  “Ah—sir? If I might ask—is Artoo-Detoo with you? Is he—”

  “He’s fine,” he growled. “Barely even a scratch. Which is more than I’ll be able to say about you, Threepio, if you forget to tell Padmé I called.”

  He cut off Threepio’s protestations mid-sentence.

  Padmé. She wasn’t home. He couldn’t see her. Touch her. Hear her laugh. He couldn’t feel her lips on his skin, or her warm sweet breath caress the back of his neck. The reunion he’d dreamed of on the journey back from Kothlis—ruined. Stolen. Carelessly trampled for some stupid, pointless women’s gabfest. So overwhelming was his disappointment that he clenched his own fist and pulverized a cracked and discarded D-D-33 laser turret.

  Sacred retreat? What is she thinking? There’s a war on. She’s not supposed to be romping offworld with a bunch of vegetarian navel-gazers. She’s a Galactic Senator, she’s got a job to do here. And I’m here.

  And what was the good of him being here if she wasn’t?

  Women.

  Deprived of his wife’s company, not at all eager to return to the Temple where he’d have to rehash the events on Kothlis and hide from Yoda all trace of his grief for the dead, he’d instead hidden himself in the simplicity of machines.

  Hours passed. He wasn’t disturbed. No call from Obi-Wan or the Jedi Council. Slicked with oil and hydraulic fluids, nicked and scraped and pinched bloody in places, once the gross mechanical faults in five fighters were repaired he decided to give every ship in the hangar a tune-up. After all, there was nowhere else he needed—or wanted—to be.

  But not even the sweaty, exacting work of bringing Gold Squadron’s starfighters to pitch-perfect performance status managed to ease his heart or lighten his thoughts.

  Rex. Coric. Ahsoka. And fourteen dead pilots. Scores more dead and wounded ground troopers.

  Why can’t we stop this? Why can’t we catch Grievous? Dooku’s only one man. How can he defy the entire Jedi Order? Who is his Sith Master? Why can’t we find him?

  Day and night the questions ate at him. They ate at Obi-Wan, too, but somehow his former Master seemed able to live without knowing the answers. Or else he was just better at hiding his dismay. His fear.

  I want Padmé. She’s the only one I can be weak with. Everyone else expects me to be strong.

  Three times he interrupted his tinkering to comm the Kaliida Shoals Medcenter. Every time he was denied permission to speak with Ahsoka. Every time he was given the same bland, impersonal reply.

  “All our patients are doing as well as can be expected, General. Your concern is appreciated. We’ll contact you with any news.”

  Fresh frustration welling, feeling the dangerous stir of rage within, after the third infuriating conversation he relieved his seared feelings by Force-flattening an empty oil drum. He stood adrift in the middle of the echoing hangar afterward, ashamed of his outburst, wrestling with that part of himself that frightened him and fueled him and woke him gasping in the dead of night.

  I am a Jedi. I am in control. I use the Force, the Force does not use me.

  A precarious calm restored, he got back to work.

  He’d been tinkering with his seventh fighter for not quite half an hour when he realized he wasn’t alone. Rolling out from underneath the ship’s space-pitted belly, he blinked at the politely inquiring face looking down at him.

  “Good morning, General Skywalker,” the spit-and-polished officer said, so respectful.

  “Morning?” Vaguely, he stared around the hushed hangar. “Sorry, I don’t—”

  An apologetic smile. “It’s after midnight, General. Technically that qualifies as morning.”

  Anakin locked the mech-cart’s wheels and sat up, his shoulders and back aching. “I suppose it does, Commander—Jefris, isn’t it?”

  The commander’s smile widened, just a little. “That’s right, General. You’ve got a good memory.” Turning, he considered the other starfighters. “Looks like you’ve been busy.”

  Anakin reached for a wipe cloth and smeared the mix of oil and blood from his hands. His skinned knuckles were stinging. “Well… it keeps me out of mischief. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all, sir,” said Jefris. Although he was still smiling, his eyes were wary. “You’re always welcome here.”

  Anakin looked at him, feeling the man’s tension, his irritation. “But?”

  “But I can’t help noticing my men aren’t at their duty stations,” said Jefris. “I take it you stood them down?”

  “That’s right. I prefer to work without distractions.”

  Jefris took a moment, then nodded. His smile faded now; his eyes were more than watchful. “General, you don’t have the authority to stand down my men. What you do with your clones is your business, of course. But the hangar crew is mine.”

  His temper, so lightly sleeping, stirred. Pushing to his feet, he tossed the wipe cloth aside.

  Really, Jefris? You really want to get into a power
match with a Jedi? Okay. Fine. We can do that. You’ll end up sorry, but we can do that.

  Jefris stepped back. “Though given how helpful you’ve been I’m prepared to let it slide this time,” he added, almost smoothly. “Just—ask first in the future, General. Please. Chain of command, you know? It’s there for a reason.”

  Coward. He smiled. “Of course. I’ll remember that.” With a sharp cracking sound, he unkinked his neck. “And since it is late, I guess I should get going. Don’t suppose you can lend me a speeder? The Temple’s parking bays aren’t quite up to accommodating my fighter.”

  “I’ll have someone take you wherever—”

  “Thanks, but I prefer to take myself. Any old speeder will do. I’ll see it’s returned to you first thing tomorrow.”

  Defeated again, Jefris nodded. “I’ll let the transport pool know you’re coming, General.”

  “I’d appreciate it,” Anakin said, and left the hangar without looking back.

  The Jedi Temple never slept.

  After dumping his borrowed clunker with the droid transport chief, abruptly aware that his belly was achingly empty, Anakin made his way to the nearest dining hall and filled a plate with hot stew and thickly buttered fresh bread. The other three Jedi in residence, also eating late—Master Damsin and senior Padawans Biliril and Dorf—beckoned him to join them, but he refused with a suitably regretful smile. Chances were they’d want to talk about Kothlis and he still wasn’t in the mood. Falling ravenous onto his meal, it wasn’t until the plate was half empty that he let himself admit he hadn’t handled Commander Jefris well.

  He was doing his job. And he was right, I had no business standing his crew down. If anyone did that to me—I should know better. I should have better control.

  A familiar tap-tap-tapping on the dining hall’s polished marble floor stirred him out of miserable self-recriminations.