by Karen Miller
“That’s because it is cruel, Obi-Wan,” Anakin snapped. “Cruel and unfeeling and unworthy of the Jedi Order.”
He was so like Qui-Gon. This was like arguing with a ghost. Don’t waste your breath, Obi-Wan. I will do what I must. “It rarely ends well, you know,” he said gently, willing Anakin to hear him, to believe him. “Entangling yourself in these transitory lives? And when it doesn’t end well, when you can’t save these people, when we can’t save Doctor Fhernan or her family or her unfortunate friends—”
“You don’t know we can’t save them. You’re giving up without even trying!”
“No, Anakin. I am not giving up. I am merely facing facts.” He hesitated, because what he wanted to say next was dangerous. On the other hand—it needed to be said. “Don’t misunderstand me. Your compassion is admirable. You are a truly good man. One of the very best I know. But you’re also a Jedi, and we cannot allow ourselves to become emotionally involved.” A deep breath. A sharp sigh. “Bant’ena Fhernan is not your mother.”
Anakin leapt to his feet. “You leave my mother out of this!”
“Anakin!” he hissed. “For pity’s sake, keep your voice down.”
Hard-breathing silence as Anakin struggled for self-control. And then he shook his head. “You don’t understand, Obi-Wan. You’ll never understand. You’ve never been a slave. You have no idea what it’s like to be completely helpless. To know your life could end at any moment on someone else’s whim.”
“That’s true,” he admitted. “But—”
“No. There is no but,” Anakin said flatly. “You’re wrong. Okay? You’re wrong. So just sit there and be wrong. Or get the other lamp set up. Or start looking for a comm hub so I can hopefully punch a signal through to the Temple. Do something, Obi-Wan. Do anything. Anything except try to tell me that I’m wrong. Because I’m not.”
Obi-Wan looked at Anakin, astonished. Ignoring him, Anakin turned away and began to rummage through an overstocked cupboard. So he did as he was told, and started setting up the second lamp.
Chapter Seventeen
It took some doing, but Anakin finally found a comm hub that he could rejig. Perhaps. He also found a reader that would accept the modern data crystals Dr. Fhernan had given them. It was slow and temperamental but it was better than nothing, so Obi-Wan hunkered down beneath the table, shielded the desk lamp’s glow with his body—as much as he could—and started reading the background research notes on Lok Durd’s precious, pernicious bioweapon.
“Do we really need to know that stuff?” said Anakin, looking askance.
Obi-Wan shrugged. “Possibly not. But you never know when an obscure piece of information could come in handy.”
“Huh. Does that mean you want me to read it?”
“No,” Obi-Wan said, glancing up. “I want you to be quiet and fix that comm hub.”
Muttering under his breath Anakin took the old comm equipment apart, using a tool kit he’d found in a drawer.
Time passed, painfully slow. Once they stopped what they were doing, frozen, as a battle droid patrol clanked past the shopfront. But the machines didn’t so much as break stride, so they started breathing again and got back to work. As best as they could guess they had six more hours of darkness before Lanteeb’s sun rose, and they needed every minute.
Coming back from the shop’s tiny refresher, Obi-Wan found Anakin trying to raise Dr. Fhernan on their sole remaining comlink.
“Any response?” he asked, folding himself back under the low desk.
Anakin shook his head and put the comlink aside. Tipping the gutted comm hub toward his own lamp, he examined its stripped-down basal connections. “No.”
Oh. That wasn’t encouraging, but worrying about it wouldn’t help. “I’m sure she’s all right, Anakin. She’s a strong, intelligent woman. And I don’t sense any trouble. Do you?”
“No,” said Anakin, frowning. “No trouble. Only—that she’s afraid.”
She’d be a fool if she weren’t. “Well, I’m sure she just fell asleep. It’s very late.”
“Yeah. Probably. I’ll try again in an hour or so.”
The little Obi-Wan could see of Anakin’s face was drawn with weariness. “Could be she’s got the right idea. Why don’t you take a short nap? I’ll keep watch.”
“No, I’m fine,” said Anakin, picking through the tool kit. “Why don’t you?”
“No, no. I’m fine, too.” He rubbed his tired, burning eyes and tried to ignore the leaden exhaustion in his muscles. “Besides, I’ve barely scratched the surface of this research. There are hours of reading on these data crystals.”
Anakin selected a small-gauge wire stripper, then glanced over. He wasn’t angry, not anymore. But he was definitely withdrawn. “Come across anything useful yet?”
“Unfortunately it’s not easy to tell,” he said, frustrated. “Chemistry was never my strong suit, I’m afraid.”
“Then skip it,” said Anakin. “And you can transmit all the science stuff through to the Temple. Let them figure it out.”
“Good idea. And when will I be able to do that, do you think?”
Anakin snorted. “When I’ve got this blasted thing working. And provided I can bounce the signal around the HoloNet grid enough times so that if the Seps do manage to pick up our transmission, they won’t be able to figure out where it originated.”
“You can do that?” he said, impressed. He wasn’t bad with electronics himself, but Anakin was—he hated to say it—extraordinary.
“In theory,” said Anakin, shrugging. “Whether I can do it in practice has yet to be seen. It’s complicated.”
Obi-wan got the unspoken message: In other words, shut up and let me work.
Silence fell again. He gave up on the science behind the bioweapon and instead turned his fading attention to Dr. Fhernan’s comprehensive data on damotite and its uses. But after a while his vision kept blurring, the words running together like melted wax. He found himself re-reading the same paragraph and failing to understand any words more challenging than and or but. Dropping the datareader into his lap, he let his weary mind wander…
…only to have it stumble right into the conundrum of Durd’s kidnapped scientist. Attempting her rescue—not to mention the rescue of her threatened family and friends, scattered across five planets—could well jeapordize the mission. One false step, one small mistake, and Durd might be alerted to his danger. While he imagined himself safe here on distant, obscure Lanteeb, there was every chance of not only disrupting the creation of his bioweapon but also taking him back into Republic custody.
Now, that would be my definition of mission success.
On the other hand, not trying to save Durd’s thirteen hostages—abandoning them to his brutal revenge—while that might well be the pragmatic thing to do…
Could I live with myself if I did it? Could I forgive myself their slaughter?
Probably not. And neither would Anakin forgive him. He frowned at his former student, so diligent in his task. Anakin, feeling the scrutiny, looked up.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Only—you were very good with Doctor Fhernan tonight.”
Anakin’s jaw tightened. “Obi-Wan—”
“No, no, I mean it,” he said quickly. “I’m not trying to—my intention isn’t to—it’s a compliment, Anakin. What you said to her. About forgiveness. It was very powerful. That’s all I meant.”
“Oh,” said Anakin, wary. He exchanged the wire stripper for a micro-pulse-reader, then tested a circuit and muttered, “Okay.”
“So… who forgave you?”
Anakin stilled. His expression, in profile, was a muddle of surprise and resignation. As though he’d been expecting the question and yet couldn’t quite believe it had been asked.
Obi-Wan was feeling a little surprised, himself. He hadn’t meant to ask it. As a rule he avoided deeply personal conversations. Especially about the past, which couldn’t be changed. And especially about Anakin’s past, so
gnarled and tangled and littered with traps.
I really am weary. I think I’ll quit while I’m ahead.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “It’s none of my business. Forget I asked. I’ll—”
“My mother,” said Anakin, his voice low. “My mother forgave me.”
Oh. Well. And how, exactly, could he answer that? Because the odds were good that whatever he said it would be the wrong thing. Shmi’s death was a minefield of regrets and failures, for both of them.
“Just before she died,” Anakin added. “She didn’t—she was—” He took a deep, shaky breath, then let it out incrementally. “She didn’t actually say I forgive you, Anakin. You know. For not saving her. For not going back to Tatooine and freeing her. But I could see the words in her eyes. I could feel them. She forgave me.”
What that meant to Anakin, Obi-Wan could only imagine. But his mother’s forgiveness was only half the equation. He rested his head against the solid side of the desk.
“And when are you going to forgive yourself?”
Anakin returned his attention to the comm hub. “Who says I haven’t?”
“Anakin. Please,” he said. “If you’d rather not talk about this, just say so. But don’t treat me like an idiot.”
“Fine,” said Anakin, and pulled out another comm relay circuit. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
Except—that wasn’t good enough. This thorny, unhealed issue needed some kind of resolution. Unless Anakin could find a way to reconcile himself with Shmi’s murder, he would never find peace. Her cruel death would continue to haunt him, to feed his fear of failing those he cared for the most. Fear was Anakin’s greatest weakness. It always had been.
Such a dichotomy. He is the most fearless man I have ever fought with… yet a part of him remains that small, frightened boy who left Tatooine eleven years ago.
The boy he knew, to his shame, he’d sometimes failed to reach.
“You shouldn’t blame yourself, you know,” he said. “If you want to blame someone, Anakin, blame me. We both know I encouraged you to leave Tatooine behind. What happened wasn’t your fault. You really must stop punishing yourself for it. I’m sure your mother wouldn’t want that. She wouldn’t want—”
Anakin dropped circuit and mini pliers and stared. Such an intimidating, adult stare. The atmosphere crackled with a sudden, dangerous tension.
“Yeah. Okay. And which part of I don’t want to talk about this just—slipped right on by you, there?”
All right. This was a mistake. He’s not a child anymore, Obi-Wan. You keep forgetting that. “Sorry. I’m—tired. I don’t know what I’m saying. I think I will take a nap after all. Wake me in half an hour, would you? If I don’t wake of my own accord?”
For a moment he thought Anakin was going to change his mind, was going to break his self-imposed silence and tell him everything that had transpired on Tatooine, when Shmi died. Because there was more. He had always known there was more than the bald fact of Shmi being kidnapped and killed by Tusken Raiders. He just didn’t know what. And he’d never let himself think about it. He had only let himself hope that one day Anakin would find his way to telling him the whole story.
Please. Let one day be this day. I have a feeling it’s important.
Anakin nodded. “Yeah, you get some rest, Obi-Wan. You look beat.”
So. Not this day after all.
Disappointed—fleetingly aware that somehow he’d managed to mishandle a rare, important moment—Obi-Wan closed his eyes and was instantly asleep.
It took him the best part of another three hours, but eventually he did it. He upgraded the clapped-out, antiquated Sigtech Industries comm hub until it was good enough—just—for them to make contact with the Jedi Temple, and Yoda.
Triumph washed away the acid weariness.
I’m good. I am. I don’t care if I’m not supposed to say it. I’m good.
Sharply, achingly, he found himself wanting Padmé. Needing her so viciously that her lack was a physical pain. He almost never got to celebrate his victories with his wife. Mostly he had to imagine her joy on his behalf, and console himself with memories.
But he’d rummaged through them too often. They were starting to wear thin.
We need to make new ones. I need to be with her again. I need to hold her. To feel her. I need to know I’m not alone.
He was tired, he was so blasted tired, but unlike Obi-Wan he didn’t dare fall asleep. Bant’ena Fhernan had stirred up the past. If he fell asleep he might dream of Tatooine, and in dreaming he might betray himself. And Obi-Wan could never know.
Padmé, Padmé, I need you. You’re the only one who understands. You’re the only one who can make the dreams stop.
His desire for her was like a dragon, sleeping. The slightest breath could awaken it, fan the flames until they threatened to consume him. He had to fight it. Innocent lives were depending on him. Obi-Wan was depending on him. Letting him down was unthinkable.
Breathing harshly, fist pressed to his lips, Anakin beat the roaring dragon into submission.
Curled on his side beneath the electronics shop’s battered desk, Obi-Wan didn’t stir. The stipulated half-hour deadline long behind him, he slept like the dead.
He’s going to be furious when he does wake and realizes I disobeyed him. Ah well. It isn’t the first time. And it won’t be the last.
With his primary task completed he retrieved the comlink, crawled out from under the counter, retreated to the rear of the shop, and tried contacting Bant’ena again. This time she answered.
“Anakin! Are you all right? Where are you?”
“We’re fine,” he said, keeping his voice low. “But I’d better not say.”
“Oh. Of course.”
“Are you all right? Has there been any trouble since we left?”
“No. Everything’s quiet. Anakin—”
“What?” he prompted, when she didn’t finish.
“I don’t understand. Why do you care so much?”
There wasn’t time to tell her. He wouldn’t tell her if there was. “I just do.”
Her sigh crackled over the ’link. “Whoever you lost—you must have loved them very much.”
His fingers tightened on the comlink. “Bant’ena, I have to go. Remember, keep this ’link open. When things happen, they’ll happen fast.”
“I’ll remember. You be careful.”
Not even the conversation with Bant’ena had woken Obi-Wan. Concerned, Anakin held one hand just above his mentor’s sleeping face and sought for a sense of him within the Force. Sought to feel if anything was seriously wrong. But no. Obi-Wan was just tired.
But is he too tired? Is he more tired than he should be? I know it’s exhausting, fighting a war, but—there’s still Zigoola. When is he going to tell me about what happened there, with him and Bail? He should tell me about that. Zigoola’s something I need to know.
And as soon as they’d put this mission behind them, he’d corner his former Master and get the truth out of him, one way or another.
It was still dark, the city still under curfew. In his estimation there was too much risk attached in trying to contact Yoda yet. Not enough ambient comm chatter and signal traffic for their illicit transmission to hide in. So he filched the datareader from sleeping Obi-Wan and plowed through reams and reams of fascinating facts about damotite.
Lanteeb’s pale dawn came at last. And as the sense of the world around them changed, Obi-Wan woke. Knew instantly he’d been asleep much longer than half an hour.
“Anakin!”
“Don’t start with me, Obi-Wan,” he said, not looking up from the reader. “We both know you needed it.”
“I will be the arbiter of what I need, not you!”
Now he did look up. “Not this time. Obi-Wan, what’s the problem? It’s not like we had somewhere else to be. And it’s not like both of us were working on the comm hub.”
“The hub.” Obi-Wan uncurled himself and cautiously sat up as far as he
could. Propped himself on one elbow. “Is it fixed?”
“Of course it’s fixed.”
“Then why didn’t you wake me? We have to contact Yoda, we have to—”
“Piggyback our signal on one of the Sep signals, to hide it,” he said, putting the datareader aside. “It’s the only way I can guarantee—almost—that we won’t be detected.”
“What about coding our transmissions?” said Obi-Wan, still looking for fault. “I tell you, Anakin, I don’t like the idea of sending data this sensitive without some kind of safeguard.”
“Well, I’ve wired in the scrambler chip I brought with me but—” Anakin shrugged. “The whole thing’s a bit wobbly, Obi-Wan. It’s not like we’re talking compatible technology here, you know.”
Obi-Wan tugged at his beard. “But you are sure we can at least cover our tracks?”
“As sure as I can be,” he said. “Once I’ve piggybacked onto a Sep signal and we hit the first holorelay, I can bounce our signal in a different direction and in theory nobody here will be any the wiser. But to do that, I have to wait for there to be a Sep signal.”
“There was no comm traffic through the night?”
“Not the kind we need.” Anakin raised an eyebrow. “A couple of local comms only. Seems the Separatists, unlike some people I know, believe in sleep.”
“Ha,” said Obi-Wan, and scrubbed a hand across his face. “What about you? Did you get any rest?”
“I’m fine.” He tapped the datareader. “No chance of falling asleep with this riveting tale to read. Although—did you get up to the bit about how Lanteeb’s other two continents are uninhabitable due to damotite contamination?”
“No. I didn’t,” said Obi-Wan, his interest piqued. “Hmm. I wonder if that’s what gave Durd the idea for his filthy bioweapon?”
“Probably.” He grinned. “When we catch him, we can ask him. Oh—and I talked to Bant’ena.”
“She’s all right? There’s no trouble?”
“Well, not unless you consider her talking to me at blasterpoint trouble.”