Star Wars: Episode III: Revenge of the Sith

by Matthew W. Stover

  She is more, now, than Anakin Skywalker’s wife.

  She is the mother of Anakin Skywalker’s unborn child.

  After an all-too-brief eternity, the kiss finally ended.

  She clung to him, just breathing in the presence of him after so long, murmuring love against his broad strong chest while he murmured love into the coils of her softly scented hair.

  Some time later, she found words again. “Anakin, Anakin, oh my Anakin, I—I can’t believe you’re home. They told me . . •’ She almost choked on the memory. “There were whispers... that you’d been killed. I couldn’t—every day—”

  “Never believe stories like that,” he whispered. “Never. I will always come back to you, Padme.”

  “I’ve lived a year for every hour you were away—”

  “It’s been a lifetime. Two.”

  She reached up to the burn-scar high on his cheek. “You were hurt...”

  “Nothing serious,” he said with half a smile. “Just an un­friendly reminder to keep up with my lightsaber practice.”

  “Five months.’’ It was almost a moan. “Five months—how could they do that to us?”

  He rested his cheek lightly on the crown of her head. “If the Chancellor hadn’t been kidnapped, I’d still be out there. I’m almost—it’s terrible to say it, but I’m grateful. I’m glad he was kidnapped. It’s like it was all arranged just to bring me home

  again...”

  His arms were so strong, and so warm, and his hand touched her hair in the softest caress, as though he was afraid she were as fragile as a dream, and he bent down for another kiss, a new kiss, a kiss that would wipe away every dark dream and all the days and hours and minutes of unbearable dread—

  But only steps away, the main vault of the Atrium still held Senators and HoloNet crews, and the knowledge of the price Anakin would pay when their love became known made her turn her face aside, and put her hands on his chest to hold him away. “Anakin, not here. It’s too risky.”

  “No, here! Exactly here.” He drew her against him again, ef­fortlessly overpowering her halfhearted resistance. “I’m tired of the deception. Of the sneaking and the lying. We have nothing to be ashamed of! We love each other, and we are married. Just like trillions of beings across the galaxy. This is something we should shout, not whisper—”

  “No, Anakin. Not like all those others. They are not Jedi. We can’t let our love force you out of the Order—”

  “Force me out of the Order?” He smiled down at her fondly “Was that a pun?”

  “Anakin—” He could still make her angry without even try­ing. “Listen to me. We have a duty to the Republic. Both of us— but yours is now so much more important. You are the face of the Jedi, Anakin. Even after these years of war, many people still love the Jedi, and it’s mostly because they love you, do you understand that? They love the story of you. You’re like some­thing out of a bedtime tale, the secret prince, hidden among the peasants, growing up without ever a clue of his special destiny— except for you it’s all true. Sometimes I think that the only rea­son the people of the Republic still believe we can win the war is because you’re fighting it for them—”

  “And it always comes back to politics for you,” Anakin said. His smile had gone now. “I’m barely even home, and you’re al­ready trying to talk me into going back to the war—” “This isn’t about politics, Anakin, it’s about you.” “Something has changed, hasn’t it?” Thunder gathered in his voice. “I felt it, even outside. Something has changed.” She lowered her head. “Everything has changed.” “What is it? What?” He took her by the shoulders now, his hands hard and irresistibly powerful. “There’s someone else. I can feel it in the Force! There is someone coming between us—” “Not the way you think,” she said. “Anakin, listen—” “Who is it? Who?”

  “Stop it. Anakin, stop. You’ll hurt us.”

  His hands sprang open as though she had burned them. He took an unsteady step backward, his face suddenly ashen. “Padme—I would never—I’m so sorry, I just—”

  He leaned on the pillar and brought a hand weakly to his eyes. “The Hero With No Fear. What a joke... Padme, I can’t lose you. I can’t. You’re all I live for. Wait...” He lifted his head, frowning quizzically. “Did you say, us?”

  She reached for him, and he came to meet her hand. Rising

  rears burned her eyes, and her lip trembled. “I’m... Annie, I’m pregnant...”

  She watched him as everything their child would mean cy­cled through his mind, and her heart caught when she saw first of all the wild, almost explosive joy that dawned over his face, be­cause that meant that whatever he had gone through on the Outer Rim, he was still her Annie.

  It meant that the war that had scarred his face had not scarred his spirit.

  And she watched that joy fade as he began to understand that their marriage could not stay hidden much longer; that even the voluminous robes she wore could not conceal a pregnancy for­ever. That he would be cast out in disgrace from the Jedi Order. That she would be relieved of her post and recalled to Naboo. That the very celebrity that had made him so important to the war would turn against them both, making them the freshest possible meat for an entire galaxy full of scandalmongers. And she watched him decide that he didn’t care. “That is,” he said slowly, that wild spark returning to his eyes, “... wonderful... Padme—that’s wonderful. How long

  have you known?”

  She shook her head. “What are we going to do?”

  “We’re going to be happy, that’s what we’re going to do.

  And we’re going to be together. All three of us.”

  “But—”

  “No.” He laid a gentle finger on her lips, smiling down at her. “No buts. No worries. You worry too much as it is.”

  “I have to,” she said, smiling through the tears in her eyes. “Because you never worry at all.”

  Anakin lurched upright in bed, gasping, staring blindly into alien darkness.

  How she had screamed for him—how she had begged for him, how her strength had failed on that alien table, how at the

  last she could only whimper, Anakin, I’m sorry. I love you. I love you—thundered inside his head, blinding him to the contours of the night-shrouded room, deafening him to every sound save the turbohammer of his heart.

  His hand of flesh found unfamiliar coils of sweat-damp silken sheets around his waist. Finally he remembered where he was

  He half turned, and she was with him, lying on her side, her glorious fall of hair fanned across her pillow, eyes closed, half a smile on her precious lips, and when he saw the long, slow rise and fall of her chest with the cycle of her breathing, he turned away and buried his face in his hands and sobbed.

  The tears that ran between his fingers then were tears of gratitude.

  She was alive, and she was with him.

  In silence so deep he could hear the whirring of the electro-drivers in his mechanical hand, he disentangled himself from the sheets and got up.

  Through the closet, a long curving sweep of stairs led to the veranda that overlooked Padme’s private landing deck. Leaning on the night-chilled rail, Anakin stared out upon the endless nightscape of Coruscant.

  It was still burning.

  Coruscant at night had always been an endless galaxy of light, shining from trillions of windows in billions of buildings that reached kilometers into the sky, with navigation lights and advertising and the infinite streams of speeders’ running lights coursing the rivers of traffic lanes overhead. But tonight, local power outages had swallowed ragged swaths of the city into vast nebulae of darkness, broken only by the malignant red-dwarf glares of innumerable fires.

  Anakin didn’t know how long he stood there, staring. The city looked like he felt. Damaged. Broken in battle.

  Stained with darkness.

  And he’d rather look at the city than think about why he was here looking at it in the first place.

  She moved more
quietly than the smoky breeze, but he felt her approach.

  She took a place beside him at the railing and laid her soft human hand along the back of his hard mechanical one. And she simply stood with him, staring silently out across the city that had become her second home. Waiting patiently for him to tell her what was wrong. Trusting that he would.

  He could feel her patience, and her trust, and he was so grateful for both that tears welled once more. He had to blink out at the burning night, and blink again, to keep those fresh tears from spilling over onto his cheeks. He put his flesh hand on top of hers and held it gently until he could let himself speak. “It was a dream,” he said finally. She accepted this with a slow, serious nod. “Bad?” “It was—like the ones I used to have.” He couldn’t look at her. “About my mother.”

  Again, a nod, but even slower, and more serious. “And?”

  “And—” He looked down at her small, slim fingers, and he slipped his between them, clasping their two hands into a knot of prayer. “It was about you.”

  Now she turned aside, leaning once more upon the rail, star­ing out into the night, and in the slowly pulsing rose-glow of the distant fires she was more beautiful than he had ever seen her. “All right,” she said softly. “It was about me.”

  Then she simply waited, still trusting.

  When Anakin could finally make himself tell her, his voice was raw and hoarse as though he’d been shouting all day. “It was... about you dying,” he said. “I couldn’t stand it. I can’t stand it.”

  He couldn’t look at her. He looked at the city, at the deck, at the stars, and he found no place he could bear to see.

  All he could do was close his eyes. “You’re going to die in childbirth.” “Oh,” she said. That was all.

  She had only a few months left to live. They had only a few months left to love each other. She would never see their child And all she said was, “Oh.”

  After a moment, the touch of her hand to his cheek brought his eyes open again, and he found her gazing up at him calmly. “And the baby?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  She nodded and pulled away, drifting toward one of the ve­randa chairs. She lowered herself into it and stared down at her hands, clasped together in her lap.

  He couldn’t take it. He couldn’t watch her be calm and ac­cepting about her own death. He came to her side and knelt.

  “It won’t happen, Padme. I won’t let it. I could have saved my mother—a day earlier, an hour—I...” He bit down on the rising pain inside him, and spoke through clenched teeth. “This dream will not become real.”

  She nodded. “I didn’t think it would.” He blinked. “You didn’t?”

  “This is Coruscant, Annie, not Tatooine. Women don’t die in childbirth on Coruscant—not even the twilighters in the downlevels. And I have a top-flight medical droid, who assures me I am in perfect health. Your dream must have been... some kind of metaphor, or something.”

  “I—my dreams are literal, Padme. I wouldn’t know a metaphor if it bit me. And I couldn’t see the place you were in you might not even be on Coruscant ...”

  She looked away. “I had been thinking—about going some­where... somewhere else. Having the baby in secret, to protect you. So you can stay in the Order.”

  “I don’t want to stay in the Order!” He took her face between his palms so that she had to look into his eyes, so that she had to see how much he meant every word he said. “Don’t pro­tect me. I don’t need it. We have to start thinking, right now, bout how we can protect you. Because all I want is for us to be together.”

  “And we will be,” she said. “But there must be more to your dream than death in childbirth. That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I know. But I can’t begin to guess what it might be. It’s too—I can’t even think about it, Padme. I’ll go crazy. What are

  we going to do?”

  She kissed the palm of his hand of flesh. “We’re going to do what you told me, when I asked you the same question this after­noon. We’re going to be happy together.”

  “But we—we can’t just... wait. I can’t. I have to do some­thing.”

  “Of course you do.” She smiled fondly. “That’s who you are. That’s what being a hero is. What about Obi-Wan?” He frowned. “What about him?”

  “You told me once that he is as wise as Yoda and as powerful as Mace Windu. Couldn’t he help us?”

  “No.” Anakin’s chest clenched like a fist squeezing his heart. “I can’t—I’d have to tell him...”

  “He’s your best friend, Annie. He must suspect already.” “It’s one thing to have him suspect. It’s something else to shove it in his face. He’s still on the Council. He’d have to report me. And...”

  “And what? Is there something you haven’t told me?” He turned away. “I’m not sure he’s on my side.” “Your side? Anakin, what are you saying?” “He’s on the Jedi Council, Padme. I know my name has come up for Mastery—I’m more powerful than any Jedi Master alive. But someone is blocking me. Obi-Wan could tell me who, and why... but he doesn’t. I’m not sure he even stands up for me with them.”

  “I can’t believe that.”

  “It has nothing to do with believing,” he murmured, softly bitter. “It’s the truth.”

  “There must be some reason, then. Anakin, he’s your best friend. He loves you.”

  “Maybe he does. But I don’t think he trusts me.” His eyes went as bleak as the empty night. “And I’m not sure we can trust him.”

  “Anakin!” She clutched at his arm. “What would make you say that?”

  “None of them trust me, Padme. None of them. You know what I feel, when they look at me?”

  “Anakin—”

  He turned to her, and everything in him ached. He wanted to cry and he wanted to rage and he wanted to make his rage a weapon that would cut himself free forever. “Fear,” he said. “I feel their fear. And for nothing?”

  He could show them something, though. He could show them a reason for their fear.

  He could show them what he’d discovered within himself in the General’s Quarters on Invisible Hand.

  Something of it must have risen on his face, because he saw a flicker of doubt shadow her eyes, just for a second, just a flash, but still it burned into him like a lightsaber and he shuddered, and his shudder turned into a shiver that became shaking, and he gathered her to his chest and buried his face in her hair, and the strong sweet warmth of her cooled him, just enough.

  “Padme,” he murmured, “oh, Padme, I’m so sorry. Forget I said anything. None of that matters now. I’ll be gone from the Order soon—because I will not let you go away to have our baby in some alien place. I will not let you face my dream alone. I will be there for you, Padme. Always. No matter what.”

  “I know it, Annie. I know.” She pulled gently away and looked up at him. Tears sparkled like red gems in the firelight.

  Red as the synthetic bloodshine of Dooku’s lightsaber.

  He closed his eyes.

  She said, “Come upstairs, Anakin. The night’s getting cold.

  Come up to our bed.”

  “All right. All right.” He found that he could breathe again, and his shaking had stilled. “Just—”

  He put his arm around her shoulders so that he didn’t have to meet her eyes. “Just don’t say anything to Obi-Wan, all

  right?”

  =10=

  MASTERS

  Obi-Wan sat beside Mace Windu while they watched Yoda scan the report. Here in Yoda’s simple living space within the Jedi Temple, every softly curving pod chair and knurled organi­form table hummed with gentle, comforting power: the same warm strength that Obi-Wan remembered enfolding him even as an infant. These chambers had been Yoda’s home for more than eight hundred years. Everything within them echoed with the harmonic resonance of Yoda’s calm wisdom, tuned through cen­turies of his touch. To sit within Yoda’s chambers was to inhale serenity; to Obi-Wan, t
his was a great gift in these troubled times.

  But when Yoda looked at them through the translucent shimmer of the holoprojected report on the contents of the lat­est amendment to the Security Act, his eyes were anything but calm: they had gone narrow and cold, and his ears had flattened back along his skull.

  “This report—from where does it come?”

  “The Jedi still have friends in the Senate,” Mace Windu replied in his grim monotone, “for now.”

  “When presented this amendment is, passed it will be?”

  Mace nodded. “My source expects passage by acclamation. Overwhelming passage. Perhaps as early as this afternoon.”

  “The Chancellor’s goal in this—unclear to me it is,” Yoda saidslowly. “Though nominally in command of the Council, the Senate may place him, the Jedi he cannot control. Moral, our au­thority has always been; much more than merely legal. Simply follow orders, Jedi do not!”

  “I don’t think he intends to control the Jedi,” Mace said. “By placing the Jedi Council under the control of the Office of the Supreme Chancellor, this amendment will give him the con­stitutional authority to disband the Order itself.” “Surely you cannot believe this is his intention.” “His intention?” Mace said darkly. “Perhaps not. But his in­tentions are irrelevant; all that matters now is the intent of the Sith Lord who has our government in his grip. And the Jedi Order may be all that stands between him and galactic domina­tion. What do you think he will do?”

  “Authority to disband the Jedi, the Senate would never

  grant.”

  “The Senate will vote to grant exactly that. This afternoon.”

  “The implications of this, they must not comprehend!”

  “It no longer matters what they comprehend,” Mace said.

  “They know where the power is.”

  “But even disbanded, even without legal authority, still Jedi we would be. Jedi Knights served the Force long before there

  was a Galactic Republic, and serve it we will when this Republic is but dust.”