The Clone Wars

by Karen Traviss

  The med droid peeled monitors and probes from the Huttlet’s skin. They came away with a wet sucking noise, trailing slime. “The patient is feverish and suffering from an unknown bacterial infection. He is also dehydrated and requires an electrolyte liquid. I prescribe a generic antipyretic suitable for Hutts to reduce his temperature, a broad-spectrum antibacterial, and one liter of liquid by mouth per hour.”

  Anakin had one eye on the chrono, counting down the time to arriving on Tatooine. “We’re some way from a pharmacy.”

  “I can dispense these items.”

  “Better make it snappy, then, Tee-Bee . . .”

  Anakin went back to the cockpit and fretted at the lack of action open to him. It was the first time he’d had literally nothing to do, rare and precious time that he would have welcomed in any other situation, but he couldn’t comm from hyperspace. R2-D2 whistled helpfully.

  “I know, Artoo. Good time to take stock. But we’ve still got a long way to go. Ventress knew where we were heading, and if she hasn’t arranged a welcome home for me, I’ll be very surprised.”

  Anakin composed a message to Padmé, glossing over the events of the last few days and concentrating on how much he missed her, and then recorded a message for Rex. Once this mission was over, there was a large hole to plug in the 501st, good men who would be missed, and Anakin understood the subtleties of leadership well enough to know that it wasn’t simply a matter of replacing numbers. There were friendships, all the more keenly missed by men who had no family, and there was morale.

  Anakin wondered how many times he would go through this before the war was over.

  “Better make sure we have operational cannon before we land, Artoo,” he said. “Leave the deflector shields for later.”

  The astromech rumbled out from behind an open bulkhead panel with tools in his claspers and whistled. He had it in hand, he said, but nobody could expect a freighter to hold its own against a military vessel. It was down to pilot skill in the end.

  “No pressure, then,” Anakin said.

  Ahsoka came back to the cockpit with Rotta in her arms and something clutched in her fist. “I could do with some help if you’re not busy.”

  “Does it involve anything messy?”

  “Not really. He’s not eaten anything for a while, so no problems there. I just need an extra pair of hands, literally.” She laid Rotta on a seat and held out her unclenched fist. There were two stimplugs in her palm. “I have to get him to swallow them.”

  “Can’t you grind them up in his electrolyte fluid?”

  “Did that. He spat it clear across the compartment. Had to mix a new batch.”

  Anakin rolled up his sleeves. “Okay. What do I do?”

  “Grab hold of him and stop him from squirming away.”

  It was easier said than done. Anakin grabbed Rotta in a two-arm arresting hold that would have done a CSF officer proud, and pinned him. For a sick Hutt, and a tiny one at that, he was still a handful. The layer of slime made it harder. He twisted furiously. Anakin held on while Ahsoka grabbed Rotta’s head like a zone-ball and forced the tablets into his mouth. Then she clamped one hand over his mouth while she held on to his head.

  They waited.

  Rotta held his breath.

  “I can wait all night, Stinky,” Ahsoka said. “Just give in. You’re outgunned and outnumbered.”

  Anakin was holding his breath, too, and he wasn’t sure if he could hang on longer than the Huttlet. He wondered how he’d ever get the smell out of his robes. Eventually there was a glumph sound and Rotta shuddered. Ahsoka removed her hand and put her thumb in his mouth to make him open wide.

  “There,” she said, peering into the open maw. “All gone. Was that so bad? You’ll be all better now.”

  “Impressive,” Anakin said, retreating to wipe his clothing. R2D2 burbled and held out an oily rag to him. “Most impressive.”

  “You care what happens to him, really. Don’t you?”

  “No, I don’t. But I care what happens to our army. He’s a means to that end.”

  “I don’t think you’re as callous as you act.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be on my best Hutt-loving behavior when we land.”

  “How does it feel to be going home? How long has it been?”

  Anakin wondered how she’d rate him on the callous scale if she knew what he’d done in the Tusken Raiders’ village. I kill people. I kill men, women, and children. But he always had a reason. So far he wasn’t ashamed of anything he’d done, only the things he hadn’t done. He wondered what Rex would make of it, a man who did his fair share of killing but had rules of engagement. He couldn’t imagine Rex losing it and going on a killing spree no matter what the provocation.

  Rotta the Hutt slept peacefully on a bunk off the main compartment. Ahsoka checked on him every few minutes. Eventually she came back with a triumphant grin and held up a dribble-soaked piece of blanket.

  “He’s awake, and he’s hungry. He’s on the mend.”

  “That is so cute . . . ,” Anakin said flatly.

  “Try to see the positive side.”

  “Try to find him something more nourishing.” Anakin fumbled in his pocket and tossed a small sealed package to her. “Here, he can have my dry rations. Hutts can digest anything. Just mash it all up with some water.”

  “Okay, I get it. You want to get Tatooine over with and get out.”

  Explaining was asking for trouble. He let her go on thinking he was just a Tatooine boy who hated Hutts, like a lot of other humans who came into contact with them.

  The Twilight dropped out of hyperspace facing the twin suns, its viewport filters reducing the glare to an amber haze. Tatooine was just a black disk against the light.

  “Ready, Artoo? Snips? Stinky?”

  Ahsoka tightened her restraints. Rotta lay oblivious of his destiny on a ledge in the cockpit. “He’s fed and sleeping.”

  “Okay, this is it. Snips, watch the scanner for anything that isn’t supposed to be there.”

  Anakin set the Twilight on course and had the laser cannon on standby. He wondered if this would be one of those rare, lucky times when the predictable worst didn’t happen, but life wasn’t like that, and Dooku was only thinking the way Anakin would have in his position.

  Tatooine loomed in the forward viewport, a mottled black and red dusty ball with high, wispy clouds that gave the false impression of seas on first glance. They’d hit the atmosphere soon. If anything was going to go wrong—

  Sensor alarms sounded.

  “Master, there’s two traces on the scanner, moving on an intercept course,” said Ahsoka.

  Bang. Something smashed into the Twilight’s hull. Anakin knew laserfire impact when he felt it.

  “Ahsoka, stand by. I need to do a little maneuvering.”

  Anakin swung the freighter in as tight a loop as he could and came about to face the attacking ships. He was expecting vultures, the ubiquitous air asset of the Separatist forces, but when he checked the scanner’s magnified image what he could see picked out in the raw light from the twin suns was much, much worse.

  Two MagnaGuard fighters—the elite personal guard of General Grievous—were pursuing the ship.

  Anakin was nose-to-nose with them in terms of the scale of space. The cannon was charged and primed; his only option was to open fire, because he’d never outrun those, not even if he jettisoned every last bolt in the ship. The MagnaGuard fighters peeled away in opposite directions, looping to start an attack run on his blind spots.

  Because that’s what I would do if I were them.

  He could fire on only one. He picked the first one that flashed in the reticle of the targeting array, and squeezed the button set in the steering yoke. White bolts of energy streaked toward the fighter, and it was swallowed in a ball of white fire.

  “Wow, good shooting!” Ahsoka gripped the armrests of her seat as if she were digging in claws. “One down, one to go!”

  But, as Anakin had already work
ed out, life wasn’t like that. He hated denting Ahsoka’s faith in him to save them. Taking out a MagnaGuard with a crate like this was lucky, very lucky, and Anakin had used up most of his lucky quota for the day. The other MagnaGuard was nowhere to be seen. Then the trace showed up on the scanner again, and Grievous’s finest looked as if it was making a run on the Twilight’s stern.

  It was. Laserfire smacked into the cargo bay section, setting off alarms across the console and throughout the ship. There was a hull breach; atmosphere was venting. The hull creaked and screamed as if something was going to shear off.

  “Hang on,” Anakin said, as if there were anything else they could do. “I think we lost a maneuvering thruster as well.”

  The freighter rolled. Ahsoka snapped off her restraints and dived like a bolo-ball goalkeeper to grab Rotta before he rolled off the ledge. R2-D2 thrust out a clasper arm to steady himself. Anakin was now ahead of the MagnaGuard fighter with no functioning aft cannon and a lot of space between him and a landing—if he could land at all. The ship shuddered again as more laser rounds hit it. Without an aft canon, Anakin needed to find a way of firing astern.

  “Artoo, can you move the forward cannon past its safe range?” The arc of fire was limited so that freighter crews wouldn’t blow their own vessel apart by firing too close to the hull. It was all too easily done when frantically emptying a magazine into a hostile vessel. “I need to move it one-eighty degrees.”

  The droid plunged a probe into the console and bleeped, explaining that he was overriding the safety control, but that it was a very bad idea.

  “I think that’s going to be academic, buddy,” Anakin said. More direct hits shook the freighter. “We won’t have much hull left at this rate anyway.”

  R2-D2 burbled to himself, and Anakin waited long seconds for the okay to fire.

  “Artoo, sometime before we plummet in flames would be good . . .”

  Then the Twilight shuddered dramatically as if in its death throes. Anakin waited for a ball of flame to come rolling through the ship, but the scanner showed an expanding ball of hot debris in the freighter’s wake.

  The MagnaGuard fighter was gone. R2-D2 spun his dome antenna in celebration, whistling happily. It was a very tight shot, he explained, and best done by a precise robotic hand, not a human, however good a gunner that human might be.

  “Nice shot, Artoo,” Anakin said. “I’ll be out of a job soon if I don’t buck up. If we useless meat-bags don’t make it through a landing—you know where to take Rotta.”

  Hutts didn’t have bones, and they were basically an immensely strong bag of muscle. Stinky might survive a crash that killed humanoids.

  “Sorry, Snips. I got you into this.” Tatooine rushed up to greet him, and with an out-of-control ship, Anakin was even less pleased to see it than he’d imagined. Comm silence wasn’t an issue now. He needed to get a message to Kenobi, just in case it was his—and Ahsoka’s—last. “Master, this is Anakin. Are you receiving me? I’m making a crash landing on Tatooine. Rotta’s alive, hostiles in pursuit, and—”

  He lost the comm frequency on reentry. But at least Kenobi now knew they’d come this far. He looked around to see Ahsoka shielding Rotta with her body. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that she could have used a Hutt as a crash bag.

  “Brace for impact,” Anakin said. “Because this is going to hurt a bit.”

  PALPATINE’S OFFICE, SENATE BUILDING, CORUSCANT

  Palpatine enjoyed Yoda’s company, because the longer he sat smiling benignly at Yoda, and the longer the greatest Jedi Master failed to recognize Palpatine for what he was, the more satisfying the situation became.

  So this is where centuries of wisdom—and power—gets you. Oblivious, smug, and self-serving.

  General Kenobi was present at the meeting, too, but as a hologram. He was still mopping up the Separatist forces on Teth. “Anakin’s reached Tatooine,” he said. “I’ve received a message that Jabba’s son is alive and well, but the ship was under attack. I’m now convinced this kidnap was all part of a plot by Dooku to frame the Republic and alienate the Hutts.”

  Palpatine shook his head very slowly. “And will Jabba believe Dooku? He’s not the most trusting of beings, even for a Hutt.”

  “If Jabba this believes, then ended is our hope of a treaty with them.” Yoda frowned. “In Skywalker, the Republic’s only hope lies. Return the Huttlet personally, he must.”

  “As ever, Master Yoda, you summarize the dilemma perfectly,” said Palpatine. Yes, restate the obvious. Very effective leadership, Yoda. “General Kenobi, is Skywalker up to this task? I know he’s an excellent soldier, but this is verging on a diplomatic assignment.”

  Kenobi nodded emphatically. “Don’t worry. Anakin has more experience in dealing with Hutts than most of us. If anyone can placate Jabba and get him on our side, he can. Kenobi out.”

  The hologram vanished and Palpatine was left looking at Yoda. The Master had both hands clasped on the top of his cane, nodding, an image of senescence that didn’t fool him one bit. Yoda might have let the Jedi fall into slow decline and comfortable expedience, but he still wasn’t safe to write off.

  Palpatine leaned forward on his desk, fingers meshed. “Master Yoda, should we send young Skywalker some support? Do you think he can do this?”

  “Impatient, the boy is. Given to emotions, too. But in dangerous situations, the most likely to succeed.”

  Palpatine noted that. “I’ll place my faith in him too, then. You must excuse me, Master Yoda, I have political business to attend to. Senator Amidala is due here for a meeting.”

  Yoda rose to leave just as Padmé Amidala entered the office. They bowed politely to one another in passing, and Padmé sat down opposite Palpatine’s desk.

  “We were going to discuss the new security measures on Naboo. My security advisers tell me more fighting has broken out in the Outer Rim.”

  Palpatine liked to see how much information he could shake out with a statement rather than a question. “Yes, I’ve just been talking to General Kenobi about the engagement he and Anakin Skywalker have been involved in.”

  Padmé’s brow creased slightly. “Anakin? Is he all right?”

  “I’m afraid a negotiation between the Jedi and the Hutts has gone badly wrong.” Padmé’s reaction—all Anakin, no Kenobi—confirmed his suspicion that this wasn’t just professional political concern. “Lord Jabba believes Anakin kidnapped his baby son.”

  “Anakin would never harm a child,” Padmé said, indignant. She recovered herself a fraction of a second too late to fool Palpatine. “No Jedi would. Let me intercede on behalf of the Senate. I can talk to Jabba and explain to him that this is some mistake, and conclude the negotiations.”

  “That’s very courageous of you, Senator, but Jabba has refused all further contact with the Republic. It’s far too dangerous for you to visit Tatooine. We’re dealing with organized crime, not a democratic state.”

  “Jabba’s uncle Ziro has a palace here,” she said. “I’ll try to get him to act as an intermediary.”

  The more Padmé was dissuaded, the more determined she became. Palpatine found that he almost pressed that button now simply to see if it worked every time. It did, although it served no extra purpose to involve her in this. He was simply gathering intelligence.

  “Do you think that’s wise? They’re gangsters.”

  “Diplomacy is about dealing with those you’d rather avoid,” she said, getting up to leave. “And we must need Hutt assistance very badly in this war for Jedi to be willing to negotiate with Jabba.”

  Palpatine nodded sagely. “Yes, sometimes we have to put aside our principles for the greater good. I’m glad the Jedi feel able to do this, and don’t cite their consciences as a reason for not fighting this war.” Padmé glanced back at him from the door, and he smiled his best paternal smile. “Do be careful with those Hutts, Senator.”

  DUNE SEA, TATOOINE

  The Twilight was full of fire-suppressant foam, sand, and
smoke, but it had landed, and everyone was alive.

  Anakin scrambled clear and checked for enemy activity, but the desert looked as empty and lifeless as ever. His next thought was to open a comm frequency to Kenobi. It was just static.

  “Snips, have you got a comm channel to me, or offplanet?”

  She checked, frowning at the comlink. “No, just noise.”

  “They’ve jammed everything, then. I’d hoped I lost Kenobi’s signal because of reentry, but obviously the Seps are getting smarter.” He pulled the hood of his tunic over his head to protect himself from the blistering sun and beckoned to Ahsoka. “All clear.”

  She crawled out of the wreckage with Rotta tucked in the backpack. The Huttlet was now alert and curious, with no sign that he’d ever appeared to be at death’s door. “Wow, feel that heat. How far do we have to go?”

  Anakin gestured to the horizon at a cluster of turrets and extravagant domes shimmering in the heat haze. The sand slowed even the fittest, and they had no survival kit, which didn’t bode well; they also had a slug with them, a species not exactly fitted to dry, dusty environments. “That’s Jabba’s palace, and we’ve got a few hours’ walk ahead. Not a great idea in this heat.”

  “Should we wait until it gets dark?”

  “I don’t think we can afford to delay, Snips.” Anakin was used to the desert, but he still didn’t underestimate its capacity to kill him as surely as Dooku would. “So I’ll take the Hutt. You grab as many water bottles as you can carry.”

  R2-D2 rumbled out of the wreckage, beeping plaintively. Ahsoka coaxed him out. He didn’t like sand.

  “Come on, Artoo,” she said. “I know. Nasty abrasive stuff. Don’t worry, we’ll give you a full service when all this is over.”

  Anakin knew there would be eyes on them. There was nowhere to hide in open desert. But the attention wasn’t directed at them—not yet, anyway—but at what was left of the Twilight. A couple of hundred meters into their hike, he looked back over his shoulder to see scavenging Jawas swarming over the wreckage like insects, dismantling sections and forming a chain to carry away everything they could detach or lift.