by Karen Miller
“No,” Obi-Wan murmured. “We’re to stay seated, remember?”
Anakin sank back on the bench. “So how do you want to play this?”
A flash of amusement. Despite the danger—or because of it—Obi-Wan was enjoying himself. “Since I’m the older cousin I’d say it’s only proper for you to follow my lead. Sir!” he said, managing an ingratiating bow at the short, stocky man striding into the passenger compartment. “I am Teeb Yavid. This is my cousin, Teeb—”
“Identichips,” said the spaceport officer in Corellian-accented Basic, holding out his hand. He wore a dark blue uniform, military cut, military-issue boots, and a heavy-duty blaster in an ammo-laden holster on his right hip, the button unclipped. “Slowly.”
Obi-Wan bobbed his head. “Do as the good man says, Markl.” His voice was pitched higher than normal, and trembled. No threat here, no sir. Just a couple of inoffensive farmers. “We don’t want any trouble.”
With an anxious, vacant smile, Anakin fished his identichip out of his patched overshirt’s pocket. “Here you are, sir.”
“And here’s mine,” added Obi-Wan, pathetically eager. “Sir, as you will see we’ve been a long time away from home. You—you are not a Lanteeban, are you? And you’re not from Alderaan. We’ve been on Alderaan, my cousin and me. Three seasons in a forestry camp. We—”
“Shut up,” said the officer. He’d shoved one ID chip into a reader unclipped from his belt and was staring at the information scrolling across the small data screen. Grunting, he glanced up. “Show me your hands.”
“Me? Yes, sir.” Anakin raised his left hand, palm-outward. Blessed the hours of rough quarter-staff training he’d undertaken with Ahsoka, preparing her to meet anyone wielding a double-bladed lightsaber.
The officer frowned. “I said hands.”
“Oh—ah—I only have one.”
“He lost the other one in an accident,” Obi-Wan chimed in. “It was dreadful—there was so much blood—I thought—”
“I said shut up,” the officer growled, switching identichips. “Last warning.”
“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan whispered. He sounded close to tears.
“And show me your hands. You need telling twice? That can get a man shot around here.”
“Shot?” Somehow, Obi-Wan managed to turn pale. “Oh sir. No, sir, please—”
“Shut up,” said the officer. He stared at Teeb Yavid’s smooth palms then back at the data screen. His gaze lifted, suspicious. “You’ve worked three years in a forestry camp? With those smooth hands?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sure it says so right there, sir,” said Obi-Wan, pointing at the datareader. “One year and a half with a vibro-ax, sir. Then I hurt my shoulder and they put me in the office.” His chest expanded with pride. “I have very good written Basic. Much better than my cousin’s. He writes like fowl scratches.”
What? Anakin bit the inside of his cheek. Any minute he’s going to break into a song-and-dance routine. What is this, stand-up night at the Coruscant Firebird?
Grudgingly, the officer handed back their identichips. “Things have changed since you left home, boys. Lanteeb’s joined the Separatist Alliance. You’ve got a new government. You’re protected now.”
“Protected from who, sir?” asked Obi-Wan, wide-eyed. “Lanteeb doesn’t have any enemies.”
The officer sneered. “The Republic is every planet’s enemy. But you don’t need to worry about that anymore. Count Dooku’s taken care of that.”
“And this would be why you’re here inspecting our ship? Why we weren’t allowed to fly it home on our own?”
“New security measures,” said the officer. “Get used to them.” He clipped the datareader back onto his belt, then wriggled his fingers. “Okay. On your feet.”
Cringingly obedient, they stood.
“Right. Now strip.”
Obi-Wan’s mouth fell open. “Strip? Sir? You mean—take off our clothes?”
“Every last stitch,” said the officer, with a bully’s gloating satisfaction. “Standard procedure. Personal weapons search.”
“Actually?” Obi-Wan straightened out of his self-effacing slump. Smiled, like a Jedi. “No. I don’t think so. You don’t need to search us for weapons.”
A dreamy look crept over the Sep officer’s broad, badly shaven face. “I don’t need to search you for weapons.”
“My cousin and I are completely harmless.”
The officer nodded vaguely. “Yes. You and your cousin are completely harmless. Hold out your wrists, please.”
“Why?” said Obi-Wan.
“All security-cleared citizens must be microchipped. Standard procedure. Only hurts for a minute.”
Anakin glanced at Obi-Wan. But his former Master nodded, so he held out his wrist. The officer unclipped a different scanner from his belt and injected him. The man was right. It did sting.
“Thank you,” said Obi-Wan, once his own chip was implanted. “Now run along. And after you’ve logged us into your security system as cleared, and granted us a full month’s docking permit, be so kind as to forget everything about us.”
“I certainly will,” said the officer, his eyes glazed. “You gentlemen have a good stay. Pay close attention to all posted regulations and don’t ignore the curfew. Anyone found on the streets after sunset is shot on sight.”
Anakin watched as the Sep walked out without the slightest protest. Then he shook his head, and looked at Obi-Wan.
“Master Kenobi, you are disturbingly good at that.”
Obi-Wan grinned. “Why, thank you. I do try. Although, to be fair, bullies make the easiest targets. Beneath their bluster they tend to be pathetically weak-minded. Now, what say we leave our little home away from home and find out what exactly these Separatist scum are up to?”
The spaceport was larger than Obi-Wan had expected, given Lanteeb’s galactic isolation. A reflection of its more prosperous past, perhaps, when the planet’s exported damotite had guaranteed a steady flow of credits. Standing at the top of their ship’s lowered ramp, idly rubbing the still-burning point on his wrist where the Sep tracking chip had been inserted, he took a moment to breathe in the noisy, smelly atmosphere. Get a feel for the place. His innate time-sense told him it was still early morning. The milky-blue sky was patchy with clouds, the air thick and muggy. It had been raining. Pools and puddles spread across their docking bay’s roofless central sector, the water sheened with iridescent oil-slick rainbows.
Wherever he looked there was construction work under way: upgrades to other docking bays, new lockdown grids, an extensive spiderweb of catwalks and rigging platforms. Across the other side of this sector was what looked like some kind of security cage arrangement complete with laser grid and targeting blaster turrets.
There were humans everywhere. Uniformed security types dominated, overseeing the construction work, each man armed with a high-powered blaster and a shock-stick. Clearly the Seps meant serious business here, and they weren’t taking any chances. There were even some battle droids patrolling what he could see of the spaceport’s inner perimeter. Instant death for anyone foolish enough to challenge them.
As for the native Lanteebans, they were easy to pick out. Hunched and nervous, skittishly aware of their armed supervisors, they were the ones lasering and sweeping and riveting and hammering and sweating to upgrade the spaceport to their new masters’ specifications. They wore nothing but overalls and sandals. No protective eye goggles. No steel-capped boots. No sensor-harnesses to protect them from a fall. The indifference to their safety was breathtaking… and at the same time, unsurprising. Their fearful misery muddied the atmosphere.
Beside him, Anakin muttered something. Not in Basic. His outrage was palpable, a red shimmer in the Force.
Oh no. Not now. “Anakin…”
“Look at them!” Anakin retorted, low-voiced. “They’ve been turned into slaves!”
“I know. It’s irrelevant. Focus on why we’re here.”
The Force shimmered a
gain, reflecting Anakin’s struggle. “Sometimes you sound just like Yoda.”
A comment not intended as a compliment. “We’re attracting attention. Let’s go.”
Still quietly seething, Anakin slapped the hatch control on the ship’s hull then leapt off the rising ramp and headed for their docking bay’s signposted exit. His imperfectly controlled agitation caught the attention of a strolling Separatist overseer. The man stared, suspicious, hand resting on the butt of his blaster. Not close enough to interfere but still too close for comfort. And this was far too public a venue for further mind-influencing.
Stang. Trying to look meek, Obi-Wan hurried after Anakin and plucked at his shapeless cotton sleeve. “Stay in character. We’re humble laborers, remember, just like the unfortunates working in here. So less stiff-necked pride and more staring at the ground, please. I’m not interested in getting locked up in a cell—or shot.”
Abruptly, Anakin’s anger collapsed. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Relax—Teeb. I’m fine.”
The staring Separatist officer kept on staring until they were safely through the docking bay’s exit. Wall sensors blipped as they passed through the autodoors.
“We should deactivate these chips,” said Anakin. “Last thing we need is an electronic trail of our movements.”
He shook his head. “Not yet. Perhaps later, if we really need to. I know the wretched things are a nuisance, but being found without an authorized identichip would surely cramp our style.”
“Huh,” said Anakin. “Tell me, do you ever get tired of being right?”
“Never,” he said, with a small, swift smile. “Come on.”
They reached the end of the narrow, winding corridor leading out of the docking bay. More sensors registered their progress beyond it, through a second set of doors and onto a narrow sidewalk facing a run-down public promenade. Immediately they found the source of the cooking smells and salt sizzle: a small open-air market situated twenty meters or so along from their spaceport exit. A scattering of food stalls jostled for attention with electronics exchanges and domestic droid repairers. Though it was still early, quite a few people wandered from stall to stall. Somewhere amid the jumble of Lanteeban humanity there was music, a thin reedy piping that tried to sound joyful, but failed. Competing with the pipes and the stall holders’ raised voices was the cackling of live domestic fowl trussed up in wooden crates.
Mingling with the downtrodden Lanteebans were more armed battle droids. On patrol, it looked like. Doubtless the new Separatist government called it keeping the peace. Tyrants and dictators had a limited vocabulary.
As it had in the spaceport, the Lanteebans’ fear made the Force feel heavy. Sluggish. Obi-Wan grimaced. “I wonder if this Separatist oppression is as prevalent in the outlying villages as it is here. Controlling the capital I can well understand—but extending that control over the entire planet might yet be beyond them. They’ve only been here a few weeks.”
Anakin shrugged. “Does it matter? I thought you said social justice was irrelevant.”
“It matters if what we’re looking for has been hidden beyond the city limits.”
Sticking his hand in his trouser pocket, Anakin jingled a few credits. “Speculation’s not going to get us anywhere, Obi-Wan. Since we’ve got to start somewhere, I suggest we chat with the locals.”
The roadway ringing the spaceport’s perimeter was paved with Republic-standard ferrocrete, but its surface was pitted and potholed and buckled in scores of places. A steady stream of groundcars, most diseased with rust, many of them so antiquated they were fitted with wheels, not antigrav units, lurched and wove and bumped grindingly around the hazards, splashing through the remains of the recent rain. Droid-operated trundle carts fared slightly better, slipping between the groundcars, serenaded by curses and blaring horns.
There was no designated pedestrian walkway to get from the spaceport over to the markets. Crossing the road was going to be… interesting.
Obi-Wan felt a familiar Force ripple and poked Anakin with his elbow. “Don’t. No using the Force unless it’s an emergency.”
Anakin stared. “You used it on that security officer.”
“Yes. Delicately. But disrupting traffic isn’t delicate, it’s the equivalent of standing on a pedestal shouting Yoo-hoo, we’re here to any Force-sensitive Separatist in the city.”
“You don’t know I was about to—”
Staring back at him, Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow.
“Fine,” Anakin grumbled. “Just don’t blame me if you get run over.”
But as they tried to judge their dash across the road they were distracted by a distant booming sound and a painful pressure against their eardrums. Backing away from the road’s dangerous edge, they turned and looked up.
“Techno Union starship,” said Anakin, one hand shading his eyes. “Excelsior-class. Even more impressive than the Hard-cell. Pricey—and very plush. Only Sep VIPs get to ride in one of those things.”
Trust Anakin to know.
Another boom as the powerful vessel, its bulbous hull gleaming, reengaged the reverse thrusters to further slow its majestic descent. The strongly stirred air whipped up mini tornadoes, flapping the market stalls’ awnings and the Lanteebans’ baggy clothes. Sent a couple of caged fowl squawking into the middle of the road, where a groundcar flattened them in a welter of blood and feathers. The stall holder’s wail of dismay was lost in the thundering roar of the Techno Union vessel’s engines. A wash of heat, sharper and brighter than the ambient humidity, spilled over the high curving walls of the spaceport, crisping hair and lungs and the stunted trees that dotted the marketplace.
Obi-Wan, immune to the landing ship’s mechanical attractions, felt a faint shiver of anticipation in the Force. Felt the familiar sense of balance deep within that told him, Yes. This is important. You’re on the right path.
“Well,” he said. “It would seem our timing is fortuitous. If you’re right, we have a Sep VIP to investigate.”
Anakin lowered his shading hand. “If I’m right?”
“Come on, Cousin Markl,” he said, smothering a smile. “We can hobnob with the locals later. Let’s see if there’s any way we can finagle ourselves into that ship’s docking bay and discover the identity of our visiting Separatist bigwig.”
But instead of following him, Anakin remained standing by the side of road, his face taut, something uncertain in his eyes.
Obi-Wan turned back. “What?”
“I don’t—I’m not sure,” said Anakin. “A sense. A feeling.”
“Do you know that ship? Do you know who’s on it?”
“No. At least—” Frustrated, Anakin pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, eyes squeezed tight shut. “It’s on the tip of my tongue. There’s something familiar there. I just—I can’t pin it down. I can’t see what’s—” With a sharp head shake, he tried to refocus. “Give me a minute. I’ll get it.”
Anakin in this mood was little short of ferocious. He drove himself so hard. Too hard. Impatient of failure, wanting only what he wanted, when he wanted it…
In this mood he’s likely to do something rash.
“Never mind. Don’t push and the answer will come to you. Especially if we can get closer to that ship.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” said Anakin. “Come on.”
But the spaceport exit that had spat them onto the sidewalk wouldn’t let them back in.
“Great,” said Anakin, and punched the wall. “Now can I use the Force?”
With an effort, Obi-Wan controlled his irritation. “No. Let’s keep wandering along this way, shall we? Perhaps we’ll come across a legitimate entrance.”
“You know,” said Anakin, falling into step beside him, “for a man who once dived headfirst through a bedroom window three and a half kilometers above street level, you’re being awfully cautious.”
He sighed. “The word is clandestine, Anakin. I do wish you’d remember it.”
“I know
, I know,” Anakin muttered. “Sorry. Guess I didn’t realize how much I’d hate all this sneaking around. I prefer the direct approach. Overwhelming firepower. It cuts down on the fiddly details. Saves a lot of time, too.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, letting some of his own tamped-down grimness show. “Once we’ve thwarted Dooku’s latest plot we’ll see every Separatist occupier on this planet wiped from its surface.”
“That’s not like you,” said Anakin, after a moment. “You aren’t the bloodthirsty type.”
He wasn’t keen to answer Anakin’s unspoken question. Squinting against the soggy grit thrown up by passing traffic, oily fumes stinging his eyes and souring his mouth, he hunched his shoulders, ready to deflect his former Padawan’s curiosity—
And changed his mind.
“No,” he said, lifting his voice just enough to be heard over the erratic stream of groundcars and trundle carts, and the crashing reverberations of the just-landed Separatist ship somewhere inside the spaceport. “I’m not. But you feel it, Anakin. The dark side is poised to consume this planet and every innocent man, woman, and child living here. They were at peace, they were harming no one. And then the Separatists came—and they brought the dark side with them.”
“Huh,” said Anakin. “So. You’re angry. I get that. But how come when I’m angry you jump on me and tell me my feelings are irrelevant? What is this, Obi-Wan? Do as I say, not as I do?”
“You want to know the difference, Anakin?” he retorted. “Fine. I have no intention of acting against this occupation until we’ve accomplished our mission. I look before leaping. And we both know the same can’t always be said of you.”
“Maybe not,” said Anakin, truculent. “But it’s funny how nobody ever complains when me not considering consequences like, say, I could get killed, ends up saving the day.”
Taking hold of Anakin’s arm, Obi-Wan tugged him to a halt. “Don’t. This isn’t about what I owe you, Anakin. I know what I owe you. It’s about us setting aside our personal feelings, our disgust at the cruelties of this place, so we can do our job. Because if we don’t, if we let the misery here cloud our judgment, then the Separatists win.”