Star Wars: Episode III: Revenge of the Sith

by Matthew W. Stover

  They walked like they were made to fight, and they had clearly seen some battle. The chest plate of one bore a round shallow crater surrounded by a corona of scorch, a direct blaster hit that hadn’t come close to penetrating; the other bore a scar from its cranial dome down through one dead photoreceptor—a scar that looked like it might have come from a lightsaber. This droid looked like it had fought a Jedi, and survived. The Jedi, he guessed, hadn’t.

  These two droids threaded between the super battle droids and destroyers and casually shoved aside one battle droid hard enough that it slammed into the wall and collapsed into a spark­ing heap of metal.

  The one with the damaged photoreceptor pointed its staff at them, and the ray shields around them dropped. “He said, hand over your weapons, Jedi!”

  This definitely wasn’t a preprogrammed security command Anakin said softly, “I saw an Intel report on this; I think those are Grievous’s personal bodyguard droids. Prototypes built to his specifications.” He looked from Obi-Wan to Palpatine and back again. “To fight Jedi.”

  “Ah,” Obi-Wan said. “Then under the circumstances, I sup­pose we need a Plan B.”

  Anakin nodded at Palpatine. “The Chancellor’s idea is sounding pretty good right now.”

  Obi-Wan nodded thoughtfully.

  When the Jedi Master turned away to offer his lightsaber to the bodyguard droid, Anakin leaned close to the Supreme Chan­cellor and murmured, “So you get your way, after all.”

  Palpatine answered with a slight, unreadable smile. “I fre­quently do.”

  As super battle droids came forward with electrobinders for their wrists and a restraining bolt for R2-D2, Obi-Wan cast one frowning look back over his shoulder.

  “Oh, Anakin,” he said, with the sort of quiet, pained resig­nation that would be recognized instantly by any parent ex­hausted by a trouble-prone child. “Where is your lightsaber?”

  Anakin couldn’t look at him. “It’s not lost, if that’s what you’re thinking.” This was the truth: Anakin could feel it in the Force, and he knew exactly where it was.

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Where is it, then?”

  “Can we talk about this later?”

  “Without your lightsaber, you may not have a ‘later.’ “

  “I don’t need a lecture, okay? How many times have we had this talk?”

  “Apparently, one time less than we needed to.”

  Anakin sighed. Obi-Wan could still make him feel about nine years old. He gave a sullen nod toward one of the droid

  bodyguards. “He’s got it.”

  “He does? And how did this happen?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Anakin—”

  “Hey, he’s got yours, too!”

  “That’s different—”

  “This weapon is your life, Obi-Wan!” He did a credible-enough Kenobi impression that Palpatine had to smother a snort. “You must take care of it!”

  “Perhaps,” Obi-Wan said, as the droids clicked the binders onto their wrists and led them all away, “we should talk about

  this later.”

  Anakin intoned severely, “Without your lightsaber, you may

  not have a—”

  “All right, all right.” The Jedi Master surrendered with a rue­ful smile. “You win.”

  Anakin grinned at him. “I’m sorry? What was that?” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d won an argument with Obi-Wan. “Could you speak up a little?”

  “It’s not very Jedi to gloat, Anakin.”

  “I’m not gloating, Master,” he said with a sidelong glance at Palpatine. “I’m just... savoring the moment.”

  This is how it feels to be Anakin Skywalker, for now:

  The Supreme Chancellor returns your look with a hint of smile and a sliver of an approving nod, and for you, this tiny, triv­ial, comradely victory sparks a warmth and ease that relaxes the dragon-grip of dread on your heart.

  Forget that you are captured; you and Obi-Wan have been captured before. Forget the deteriorating ship, forget the Jedi-

  killing droids; you’ve faced worse. Forget General Grievous What is he compared with Dooku? He can’t even use the Force

  So now, here, for you, the situation comes down to this: you are walking between the two best friends you have ever had, with

  your precious droid friend faithfully whirring after your heels.

  On your way to win the Clone Wars.

  What you have done—what happened in the General’s Quar­ters and, more important, why it happened—is all burning away in Coruscant’s atmosphere along with Dooku’s decapitated corpse. Already it seems as if it happened to somebody else, as if you were somebody else when you did it, and it seems as if that man—the dragon-haunted man with a furnace for a heart and a mind as cold as the surface of that dead star—had really only been an image reflected in Dooku’s open staring eyes.

  And by the time what’s left of the conning spire crashes into the kilometers-thick crust of city that is the surface of Coruscant, those dead eyes will have burned away, and the dragon will burn with them.

  And you, for the first time in your life, will truly be free.

  This is how it feels to be Anakin Skywalker.

  For now.

  =7=

  OBI-WAN AND ANAKIN 2

  This is Obi-Wan Kenobi in the light:

  As he is prodded onto the bridge along with Anakin and Chancellor Palpatine, he has no need to look around to see the banks of control consoles tended by terrified Neimoidians. He doesn’t have to turn his head to count the droidekas and super battle droids, or to gauge the positions of the brutal droid body­guards. He doesn’t bother to raise his eyes to meet the cold yel­low stare fixed on him through a skull-mask of armorplast. He doesn’t even need to reach into the Force. He has already let the Force reach into him. The Force flows over him and around him as though he has stepped into a crystal-pure waterfall lost in the green coils of a forgotten rain forest; when he opens himself to that sparkling stream it flows into him and through him and out again without theslightest interference from his conscious will. The part of him that calls itself Obi-Wan Kenobi is no more than a ripple, an eddy in the pool into which he endlessly pours.

  There are other parts of him here, as well; there is nothing here that is not a part of him, from the scuff mark on R2-D2’s dometo the tattered hem of Palpatine’s robe, from the spidering

  crack in one transparisteel panel of the curving view wall above to the great starships that still battle beyond it.

  Because this is all part of the Force.

  Somehow, mysteriously, the cloud that has darkened the Force for near to a decade and a half has lightened around him now, and he finds within himself the limpid clarity he recalls from his schooldays at the Jedi Temple, when the Force was pure, and clean, and perfect. It is as though the darkness has withdrawn has coiled back upon itself, to allow him this moment of clarity, to return to him the full power of the light, if only for the mo­ment; he does not know why, but he is incapable of even won­dering. In the Force, he is beyond questions.

  Why is meaningless; it is an echo of the past, or a whisper from the future. All that matters, for this infinite now, is what, and where, and who.

  He is all sixteen of the super battle droids, gleaming in laser-reflective chrome, arms loaded with heavy blasters. He is those blasters and he is their targets. He is all eight destroyer droids waiting with electronic patience within their energy shields, and both bodyguards, and every single one of the shivering Neimoid­ians. He is their clothes, their boots, even each drop of reptile-scented moisture that rolls off them from the misting sprays they use to keep their internal temperatures down. He is the binders that cuff his hands, and he is the electrostaff in the hands of the bodyguard at his back.

  He is both of the lightsabers that the other droid bodyguard marches forward to offer to General Grievous.

  And he is the general himself.


  He is the general’s duranium ribs. He is the beating of Griev­ous’s alien heart, and is the silent pulse of oxygen pumped through his alien veins. He is the weight of four lightsabers at the general’s belt, and is the greedy anticipation the captured weap­ons sparked behind the general’s eyes. He is even the plan for his own execution simmering within the general’s brain.

  He is all these things, but most importantly, he is still Obi-Wan Kenobi.

  This is why he can simply stand. Why he can simply wait. He has no need to attack, or to defend. There will be battle here, but he is perfectly at ease, perfectly content to let the battle start when it will start, and let it end when it will end.

  Just as he will let himself live, or let himself die.

  This is how a great Jedi makes war.

  General Grievous lifted the two lightsabers, one in each dura­nium hand, to admire them by the light of turbolaser blasts out­side, and said, “Rare trophies, these: the weapon of Anakin Skywalker, and the weapon of General Kenobi. I look forward to adding them to my collection.”

  “That will not happen. I am in control here.” The reply came through Obi-Wan’s lips, but it was not truly Obi-Wan who spoke. Obi-Wan was not in control; he had no need for control. He had the Force.

  It was the Force that spoke through him. Grievous stalked forward. Obi-Wan saw death in the cold yellow stare through the skull-mask’s eyeholes, and it meant nothing to him at all.

  There was no death. There was only the Force. He didn’t have to tell Anakin to subtly nudge Chancellor Palpatine out of the line of fire; part of him was Anakin, and was doing this already. He didn’t have to tell R2-D2 to access its combat subprograms and divert power to its booster rockets, claw-arm, and cable-gun; the part of him that was the little as­tromech had seen to all these things before they had even en­tered the bridge.

  Grievous towered over him. “So confident you are, Kenobi.” “Not confident, merely calm.” From so close, Obi-Wan

  could see the hairline cracks and pitting in the bone-pale mask and could feel the resonance of the general’s electrosonic voice humming in his chest. He remembered the Question of Master Jrul: What is the good, if not the teacher of the bad? What is the bad if not the task of the good?

  He said, “We can resolve this situation without further vio­lence. I am willing to accept your surrender.”

  “I’m sure you are.” The skull-mask tilted inquisitively. “Does this preposterous I-will-accept-your-surrender line of yours ever actually work?”

  “Sometimes. When it doesn’t, people get hurt. Sometimes they die.” Obi-Wan’s blue-gray eyes met squarely those of yellow behind the mask. “By people, in this case, you should understand that I mean you.”

  “I understand enough. I understand that I will kill you.” Grievous threw back his cloak and ignited both lightsabers. “Here. Now. With your own blade.”

  The Force replied through Obi-Wan’s lips, “I don’t think so.”

  The electrodrivers that powered Grievous’s limbs could move them faster than the human eye can see; when he swung his arm, it and his fist and the lightsaber within it would literally vanish: wiped from existence by sheer mind-numbing speed, an imitation quantum event. No human being could move remotely as fast as Grievous, not even Obi-Wan—but he didn’t have to.

  In the Force, part of him was Grievous’s intent to slaughter, and the surge from intent to action translated to Obi-Wan’s re­sponse without thought. He had no need for a plan, no use for tactics.

  He had the Force.

  That sparkling waterfall coursed through him, washing away any thought of danger, or safety, of winning or losing. The Force, like water, takes on the shape of its container without effort, without thought. The water that was Obi-Wan poured itself into the container that was Grievous’s attack, and while some materials might be water-tight, Obi-Wan had yet to encounter any that were entirely, as it were, Force-tight...

  While the intent to swing was still forming in Grievous’s mind, the part of the Force that was Obi-Wan was also the part of the Force that was R2-D2, as well as an internal fusion-welder Anakin had retrofitted into R2-D2’s primary grappling arm, and so there was no need for actual communication between them; it was only Obi-Wan’s personal sense of style that brought his cus­tomary gentle smile to his face and his customary gentle murmur

  to his lips. “Artoo?”

  Even as he opened his mouth, a panel was sliding aside in the little droid’s fuselage; by the time the droid’s nickname had left his lips, the fusion-welder had deployed and fired a blinding spray of sparks hot enough to melt duranium, and in the quarter of a second while even Grievous’s electronically enhanced re­flexes had him startled and distracted, the part of the Force that was Obi-Wan tried a little trick, a secret one that it had been sav­ing up for just such an occasion as this.

  Because all there on the bridge was one in the Force, from the gross structure of the ship itself to the quantum dance of the electron shells of individual atoms—and because, after all, the nerves and muscles of the bio-droid general were creations of electronics and duranium, not living tissue with will of its own— it was just barely possible that with exactly the right twist of his mind, in that one vulnerable quarter of a second while Grievous was distracted, flinching backward from a spray of flame hot enough to burn even his armored body, Obi-Wan might be able to temporarily reverse the polarity of the electrodrivers in the general’s mechanical hands.

  Which is exactly what he did.

  Durasteel fingers sprang open, and two lightsabers fell free.

  He reached through the Force and the Force reached through him; his blade flared to life while still in the air; it flipped toward him, and as he lifted his hands to meet it, its blue flame flashed between his wrists and severed the binders before the handgrip smacked solidly into his palm.

  Obi-Wan was so deep in the Force that he wasn’t even suprised it had worked.

  He made a quarter turn to face Anakin, who was already in the air, having leapt simultaneously with Obi-Wan’s gentle mur­mur because Obi-Wan and Anakin were, after all, two parts of the same thing; Anakin’s flip carried him over Obi-Wan’s head at the perfect range for Obi-Wan’s blade to flick out and burn through his partner’s binders, and while Grievous was still flinch­ing away from the fountain of fusion fire, Anakin landed with his own hand extended; Obi-Wan felt a liquid surge in the waterfall that he was, and Anakin’s lightsaber sang through the air and Anakin caught it, and so, one single second after Grievous had begun to summon the intent to swing, Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker stood back-to-back in the center of the bridge, expressionlessly staring past the snarling blue energy of their lightsabers.

  Obi-Wan regarded the general without emotion. “Perhaps you should reconsider my offer.”

  Grievous braced himself against a control console, its dura-steel housing buckling under his grip. “This is my answer!”

  He ripped the console wholly into the air, right out from under the hands of the astonished Neimoidian operator, raised it over his head, and hurled it at the Jedi. They split, rolling out of the console’s way as it crashed to the deck, spitting smoke and sparks.

  “Open fire!” Grievous shook his fists as though each held a Jedi’s neck. “Kill them! Kill them all!”

  For one more second there was only the scuttle of priming levers on dozens of blasters.

  One second after that, the bridge exploded into a firestorm.

  Grievous hung back, crouching, watching for a moment as his two MagnaGuards waded into the Jedi, electrostaffs whirling through the blinding hail of blasterfire that ricocheted around the bridge. Grievous had fought Jedi before, sometimes even in open battle, and he had found that fighting any one Jedi was much like fighting any other. Kenobi, though—

  The ease with which Kenobi had taken command of the situation was frightening. More frightening was the fact that of the two, Skywalker was reportedly the greater warrior. And even their R2 unit
could fight: the little astromech had some kind of aftermarket cable-gun it had used to entangle the legs of a super droid and yank it off its feet, and now was jerking the droid this way and that so that its arm cannons were blasting chunks off its squadmates instead of the Jedi.

  Grievous was starting to think less about winning this par­ticular encounter than about surviving it.

  Let his MagnaGuards fight the Jedi; that’s what they were designed for—and they were doing their jobs well. IG-101 had pressed Kenobi back against a console, lightning blazing from his electrostaff’s energy shield where it pushed on Kenobi’s blade; the Jedi general might have died then and there, except that one of the simple-minded super battle droids turned both arm can­nons on his back, giving Kenobi the chance to duck and allow the hammering blaster bolts to slam 101 stumbling backward. Skywalker had stashed the Chancellor somewhere—that snivel­ing coward Palpatine was probably trembling under one of the control consoles—and had managed to sever both of 102’s legs below the knee, which for some reason he apparently expected to end the fight; he seemed completely astonished when 102 whirled nimbly on one end of his electrostaff and used the stumps of his legs to thump Skywalker so soundly the Jedi went down skidding.

  On the other hand, Grievous thought, this might be salvage­able after all.

  He tapped his internal comlink’s jaw sensor to the general droid command frequency. “The Chancellor is hiding under one of the consoles. Squad Sixteen, find him, and deliver him to my escape pod immediately. Squad Eight, stay on mission. Kill the Jedi.”

  Then the ship bucked, sharper than it ever had, and the view wall panels whited out as radiation-scatter sleeted through the bridge. Alarm klaxons blared. The nav console flared sparks into the face of a Neimoidian pilot, setting his uniform on fire and adding his screams to the din, and another console exploded, rip­ping the newly promoted senior gunnery officer into a pile of shredded meat.