His chosen status meant less than nothing; it felt more like a stigma. And they wondered why he was difficult at times. Maybe they didn’t want balance, whatever that was. Maybe nobody liked a Jedi who was that different. He felt like an embarrassment to them.
I do everything you ask of me. I try so hard. When is it going to be enough? When are you going to say, “Okay, Anakin Skywalker, you’re good enough”?
The hatch swung open. “What’s wrong, Skyguy?” Ahsoka fixed him with that you-can’t-avoid-me stare. “It took me ages to find you. We’re ready to roll.”
“Have you heard of knocking?” Don’t do this to her. You know how it feels to be invisible to the grownups, a nuisance. “I’m just thinking, that’s all.”
“Worried about helping Jabba? Don’t worry, everyone else is, too.”
Anakin could never answer her. He tried not to think about it, but the thought was like a corris weevil, eating away at his resolve. The Jedi had never tried to rescue his mother or buy her out of slavery. Instead, they had taken him, given him this new life, but left her behind on Tatooine. He had just accepted it at the time, but now . . . now he knew how much power Jedi had, and all he could wonder is why she hadn’t been worth their time and trouble, too, if only to keep him happy.
Not even Qui-Gon Jinn had cast a backward glance at Shmi Skywalker. As the months and years wore on, the question would not leave Anakin alone.
He didn’t want to let resentment eat away at his fond memories of his old Master, but he couldn’t stop it sometimes.
“Skyguy . . . ? Skyguy! Are you listening?”
The Jedi Council had credits. Real wealth. Would it really have been beyond them to buy his mother out of slavery?
Anakin accepted that some things had to be learned from the cradle. He was already full of attachment and emotion, too set in his ways of being a messy, ordinary human to adopt the aloof serenity—the unloving detachment, the arm’s-length and measured compassion—a Jedi needed.
He did his best.
Why wasn’t my mother worth saving?
Jabba grew fat on the misery of beings like Anakin’s mother. He’d probably taken a percentage of the very transactions that had kept Shmi Skywalker in slavery.
And still I have to save his son. Because we need his goodwill. His space lanes.
The idea stuck in Anakin’s throat like a splintered nuna bone. The pain was palpable. He didn’t know if it was grief for his mother, or guilty anger at Qui-Gon Jinn, or just the vague simmering discontent that told him he needed to have more control over his life.
“It’s got to be done,” Anakin said at last. “I don’t feel anything about it. Only think how we’re going to do it.”
Ahsoka considered him for a while as if there were something projected on a holoscreen slightly to one side of him. Could she see? Could she see he’d slaughtered those Tusken Raiders? Was it etched in the Force around him? Did she know he’d committed an atrocity to avenge the death of his mother?
If she did, she wasn’t sensing his guilt.
He didn’t feel guilt about it at all.
“Let’s go,” he said.
JABBA’S PALACE, TATOOINE
Jabba didn’t have to feign contemptuous anger to cover his fears for Rotta this time. He was enraged. He rounded on TC-70.
“Clear the chamber.” He looked around at the cowering dancers and the Nikto guards, who didn’t seem sure if the command applied to them. “Get out! Leave us!” The throne chamber emptied as if on fire. “Someone will pay for this. Who is even capable of slaughtering my employees like nerfs?”
The heads of the bounty hunters he’d sent to Teth had been returned to him in a neat, anonymous, flimsiplast-lined crate. Nothing else; just the heads. He stared at it, furious. This was all that remained of the finest bounty hunters creds could hire. These were tough operators, exceptionally hard to evade, let alone capture and kill. Jabba tried hard to think of any assassins who might be tougher, and who they might work for.
He came up blank. He knew every being who wielded power, both sides of the law, and there was nobody he could imagine who would or could do this. It was bad enough to find he had so underestimated an unseen enemy that his own son could be kidnapped. Having his top bounty hunters sent back in butchered pieces was beyond an insult. It rocked his world.
“The Jedi is here, Lord Jabba,” said the droid. “He seems most anxious.”
“And so he should be. It’ll be his head if he doesn’t get results fast.” Jabba let his anger escape in a rumbling hiss, and settled back on his dais into as dignified a pose as he could manage. “Show the Jedi in.”
Jabba treated Jedi with caution. The mystic side of them made him wary, because he could never get the measure of their physical limits. But they were, for the most part, humans or similar bipedal species—and they could be killed, Jedi or not. They were not immortal, and any living being had something that it needed and would trade advantages to obtain.
Jabba would do whatever it took to get Rotta back unharmed. After that—if he needed to exact revenge, and he would—he would reconsider his position. He’d been maneuvered. He didn’t care much for that.
Obi-Wan Kenobi was a general in their army, a bearded human with unkempt hair and loose robes. He walked in, stood before the dais, and bowed.
“Mighty Jabba, I’m come personally to report on our efforts to find your son.” He seemed to speak Huttese fluently. That was unusual for someone who moved in the more genteel circles of the Republic’s power elite. “We know where he is, and we’ve sent one of our most powerful Jedi to rescue him.”
Jabba gestured to TC-70. He indicated the crate of decapitated heads. TC-70, who knew the drill by now and the impression that needed making, tipped the crate over, spilling the heads on the tiles. Most of them rolled out. One hit the floor with an odd crack like porceplast breaking.
“That,” said Jabba, “is what befell the last experts who were looking for my son.”
Kenobi studied the severed heads impassively, then raised one eyebrow. He didn’t seem shockable. Maybe he was just a good actor. But either way, he must have understood the stakes.
“I think our man will be harder to separate from his head,” Kenobi said at last. “We won’t let you down.”
“You’ll find Rotta and return him to me,” Jabba said. “And there’s an extra condition if the Republic wants free passage through my space lanes. Bring me the scum who kidnapped my son.”
Kenobi didn’t blink. “Dead or alive, Lord Jabba?”
“Either,” Jabba said. “But alive would give me greater satisfaction, for reasons I probably don’t need to explain to you.”
“I understand, Lord Jabba.”
“See that you do.” Jabba paused, knowing that timing was everything when making a point to humans. “Because if you can’t do the job, then Count Dooku and his droid army will.”
He had to hand it to the Jedi. The man didn’t grovel or flatter, like Palpatine; he seemed to stop and calculate instead.
“We’ll do it,” Kenobi said.
“You have one planetary rotation to finish the job.” Jabba gestured to TC-70 to collect the heads. “A Tatooine rotation.”
“It will be done, Lord Jabba. Now, in anticipation of that, may we discuss terms?”
Kenobi was nothing if not cool. He managed to be respectful without showing fear. Normally, Jabba would have treated that as showing insufficient deference, but he needed the Jedi’s cooperation for the time being.
“We may,” he said.
REPUBLIC GUNSHIP, INBOUND FOR TETH
Anakin stared back at the blue hologram of Kenobi in the crew bay of the gunship.
“One day to find the kid and get him back home,” he said at last.
“That’s right, Anakin.”
“We’ll do it, Master.” He was aware of Ahsoka, Rex, and the squad of troopers tasked with inserting on Teth sitting with their backs against the bulkhead in silence. “You just sweet-talk
Jabba. I think you have the harder duty . . .”
“We really don’t know who’s holding his son. I’m uneasy, to say the least. Whoever it is managed to kill a complete team of bounty hunters. That’s not your average criminal scum.”
“And we’re not the average hostage-extraction team.”
“I’ll rendezvous with you as soon as I’ve concluded negotiations.”
“Don’t worry about us, Master.”
The hologram vanished. Anakin turned to the team. “This won’t be an unopposed insertion, but then I think we expected that. Everyone ready?”
“Ready, sir.”
“Ready, Master.”
The lead gunship streaked low over an ocean, three or four meters above the waves, giving Anakin the impression of moving above an undulating runway when he glanced out of the open hatch. Behind the LAAT/i, more gunships flew line astern, hugging the same contours and occasionally tracking diagonally in case an enemy was trying to get a lock on them. But they were alone on a remote planet for the time being, and they probably wouldn’t encounter resistance in the form of anti-air cannon until they reached the coast. Anakin checked the rear and then leaned into the cockpit. “Picking up anything, Lieutenant Hawk?”
The pilot indicated the console. His screen showed red and green icons. “Long range shows a heavily defended target, sir. Laser-cannon emplacements, at the very least. We won’t be undetected now, you do know that, don’t you, sir? I’ll drop below the tree canopy as soon as I get a clear run.”
“Good, then bang out as soon as we’re down. I need you standing by for extraction.”
“Will do, sir.”
The sea gave way to glittering turquoise shallows speckled with dark masses of weed and then dense emerald jungle. The trees were wreathed in mist. It looked like a nice, ordinary day in a pleasant, unspoiled place. Anakin knew the illusion wouldn’t last long.
“Buckets on,” Rex said, and snapped his helmet into place.
The squad followed suit. Then all of them went through the ritual of checking charge levels on their rifle and sidearms, tugging at carabiners on their rappel kit, and flexing their hands. Without the complex helmet the clone troopers wore, Anakin was shut out of their data-laden world. He couldn’t see what they saw, or receive the welter of information—images, text, sensor readings—or hear the constant comm chatter on a dozen frequencies. He took a guess that Rex was now transmitting last-minute orders to the gunships in the squadron. He’d never know for sure.
Some things had to be known and quantified rather than felt in the Force.
The audio system in the crew bay crackled into life. “Sir, estimated time on target—five standard minutes. Better assume they’ve seen us. I’m sealing the blast hatches now.”
“Copy that, Hawk,” said Anakin.
The crew bay dimmed and the sunlight was replaced by red emergency illumination. He looked down at Ahsoka. He’d almost grown used to her being so small, but in the crowded compartment, dwarfed by troopers hanging on to overhead rails, she looked as if she’d boarded the wrong flight.
Even with the hatches sealed, Anakin heard the first stuttering rounds of laser cannon.
“Taking fire, sir,” Hawk said. “I’ll drop below their range, but stand by for a bumpy ride when we hit the forest.”
“Thirty seconds,” Rex said quietly.
Once they hit the ground—if they hit the ground, if they made it in one piece—then their task had only just started. Their objective was a monastery on top of a plateau surrounded by dense jungle.
They’d tackled worse.
Anakin tightened his belt and felt for his lightsaber. They had to pull this off. His feelings about Hutts didn’t matter. It wasn’t about the kid; it was about his men, the Grand Army, about getting the war won and over with. He focused on that. The troopers were now lined up at both hatches.
The gunship shook as it took a direct hit, but the armor plating held. Anakin closed his eyes for a moment. Then the deck seemed to fall beneath his boots, random thuds echoed through the airframe—the gunship was hitting something on its descent, not taking fire now—and then there was a distinct lurch as Hawk set the LAAT/i down. The jump lights showed green and both hatches lifted. Moist, hot, tree-scented air flooded into the crew bay.
How Hawk had found a landing area in this dense forest without shearing off a gun pod, Anakin had no idea.
“Go!” Rex said, slapping the first trooper in line on the shoulder. “Go, go, go!”
Anakin reached out and grabbed Ahsoka’s wrist to make sure she was right next to him. Then, watching the white outline of a trooper vanish into a sea of branches and glossy green foliage, he jumped clear.
EIGHT
One day, I must thank Master Yoda and the Jedi Council for contributing so generously to our cause. You would think they would take better care of their Chosen One. But all they seem to do, from what I hear—and I hear a great deal—is to frustrate and alienate young Skywalker. I believe they’re storing up trouble for themselves.
DARTH SIDIOUS, better known as
Chancellor Palpatine, to Count Dooku
RV POINT ON THE FOREST FLOOR
BENEATH THE ABANDONED MONASTERY, TETH
THE DROIDS COULDN’T get a visual on the GAR forces through the thick foliage, but that didn’t stop them pouring down fire.
“Something tells me the residents have given up a contemplative life of prayer,” Rex said. A burst of laserfire crashed through the tree canopy, bringing down branches and vines. He wiped something wet, sticky, and dismembered from his forearm plate. “There goes their tax-exempt status.”
Ahsoka spun and deflected a stray bolt with her lightsaber. “I don’t even want to think what happened to the monks. What do you know about tax, anyway?”
“Everything HNE bulletins taught me.” It was his window on a world he wasn’t part of, but he was used to absorbing information that way. Flash-training had formed a large part of his early life, and it often diverged from the real world, but he could fill in the gaps—most of the time, anyway. “Now, it’s at times like this that I wish all we had to do was blow that castle to pieces from orbit.”
Rex stared up the sheer cliff of the granite plateau that rose from the jungle floor like an island covered in a frozen waterfall of fleshy vines. There was only one way to insert: the hard way. He calculated the height precisely with his visor’s inbuilt telemetry system.
“Got enough cable?” Ahsoka asked.
“Just about.”
He could hear the grinding whee-umpp-whee-umpp sound of the AT-TE armored vehicle as it picked its way between the trees on sturdy mechanical legs. Skywalker came jogging ahead of it, gesturing to stand clear. The machine slowed to a halt, and its cannon turrets elevated.
“Here’s our covering fire.” Rex switched to the AT-TE crew’s comm circuit. They were getting a sensor fix on a parapet running the length of the castle wall so they could fire through the canopy unseen. “Stick close to General Skywalker.”
“That’s what he keeps saying, too.”
“Smart advice, obviously.” Rex tapped the top of his helmet to get his squad to form up on him, and reinforced the command with a quick comm burst. “Stand by. We’ll ascend behind the fire line.”
The AT-TE had a firing solution. He could see it on one of his HUD icons. But as he waited for the barrage to start, something heavy came crashing down through the branches overhead, dislodging chunks of stone and vine.
Rex ducked instinctively, thinking it was an explosive device; if he’d been up there defending that position, he’d have been rolling lateral-blast ordnance down the cliff to detonate a meter above ground level and disintegrate everything—and everyone—in a five-hundred-meter radius. But they weren’t him. And what had fallen from the plateau wasn’t ordnance, but a battle droid commander.
It hit the ground with a crash. Rex pulled his sidearm and put a burst of fire through its head without thinking. It wasn’t armed, but he ran a
hand sensor over it to make sure it wasn’t booby-trapped.
“They don’t bounce much, do they?” He looked up the cliff wall again, then glanced back at Skywalker. Ahsoka stood at his side as if bolted there. “Ready when you are, sir.”
Skywalker had a distracted look on his face that Rex had seen before. It was like a brief trance; maybe it was Jedi meditation of some kind. Whatever it was, Rex read it as the moment when Skywalker tussled with himself, trying to overcome something within, or psyching himself up, or something where two elements of him pulled in different directions; because whatever it achieved, he came out of it in what Rex thought of as his killing-machine mode. He was unstoppable, all lethal movement, cutting down everything he came into contact with.
“A-tee,” Skywalker said, “return fire.”
He started climbing the vine.
A stream of blue-white bolts seared upward through the trees, vaporizing branches. From that moment, the forest was all deafening mechanical noise, and Rex’s helmet activated buffers to protect his hearing. He could have switched off the audio completely and fought in soundproofed peace, but he needed to hear something of the battle environment around him to get a gut feel for what was happening. The shapes and icons in his HUD were just detail now. AT-TEs thundered and wheezed as they moved up to scale the cliff face, firing as they went.
The armored walkers, tanks in six heavy jointed legs, were built for horizontal terrain, however uneven, and perfect for it. They could climb, but it limited their effectiveness and made them very vulnerable. Using them to scale a vertical cliff was as near to a last-resort deployment as he’d seen so far in this war.
But they didn’t have time to do it by the book. They had one day.
Because some jumped-up gangster of a Hutt says so.
He put it out of his mind. All flesh and blood could do was concentrate on what was immediately in front. Rex fired his rappel line almost vertically through the tree canopy, feeling the grappling hook bite into something solid. Then he let the powered winch lift him. He became one man in a curtain of white-armored troopers ascending the steep rock face. He could see himself as a sitting target hanging in midair, or as a fast-moving weapons platform conserving his energy for the battle that was certain to be waiting at the top of the ascent. He chose the latter.
The Clone Wars Page 8