by Karen Miller
And then the refinery went up like Coruscant fireworks on Republic Day.
Screams and shouts sounded as panic surged through the Force, bright and white and stunning. Vision smearing and blearing, Anakin sought in the crowd for Teeba Jaklin. She’d come from the charter house to see what the fuss was about and remained because she couldn’t believe her own eyes.
“Jaklin! Teeba Jaklin!”
She pushed and shoved and swore her way to him through the jostling villagers who pointed and gasped and were beginning to break for the refinery.
“Yes, Markl?” She scowled. “If that’s even your name.”
“It’s my name at the moment,” he said, his teeth gritted against the relentless pain of the storm. “Teeba Jaklin, please. Find Yavid for me. Make sure he’s all right.”
The explosion’s echoes rolled around the village, trapped beneath the barely holding shield. The red stormglow beyond it was matched by the red glow of leaping flames. The refinery was burning. He and Jaklin stared at each other as the rest of Torbel’s people ran to help, shadows in the glare of the storm. Some headed for the artesian well, for water. Others made straight for the burning building full of raw damotite.
A chilling thought struck him. Was the mineral itself flammable? That smoke—was it a toxic cloud poised to poison every last man, woman, and child beneath the storm shield?
“Teeba Jaklin! Is there danger from the—”
Her eyes were full of fear. “Yes. Not drop-dead-on-the-spot trouble but even with our secret protection we’ll all of us be sickly in the next few days.” She looked up at the thrashing theta storm over their heads. “Unless that clears quick soon and we can down the shields so the smoke gets to blow clean away.”
“Which—” He had to pause, to rebalance himself. The effort of fighting the storm was threatening to drive him to his knees. He’d started to breathe in harsh gasping pants. “Which is—worse? The theta particles—or the damotite—smoke?”
The question made her laugh grimly. “The storm—unless it don’t clear and we’re left breathing smoke for hours on end. Then we’ll be likely done for whichever way you slice the bread.”
Of course they would be. The universe had a stinking sense of humor.
“You need—to find Yavid,” he gasped. “If he’s—not hurt he—can help you.”
The look on her face said she thought they were all beyond help. “I’ll look for him. How much longer before you fail, Teeb?”
He didn’t know. He didn’t want to think about that. “I’m—all right. Go. Please.” Another deep, shuddering breath. “Find Yavid.”
They were alone now, save for the men working on the shield generator. Jaklin turned away from him. “Guyne! How soon before that generator’s fixed?”
The oldest of the four feverishly tinkering men spared her a glance. “Going as fast as we can, Jaklin. Half the circuits are burned out.”
Anakin tightened his hold on the Force, feeling the seethe and surge of the storm like living fire. “I can—hold on, Teeba. Don’t—worry—about me. Just go. Go!”
Half step by half step, Jaklin retreated. In the garish light her eyes were narrowed. A muscle worked along her jaw. “I know what you are, young Teeb. You’re—”
“Not—now,” he said, almost groaning. “Please. Find Yavid. Tell him—I’ll get there—soon as—I can.”
Instead of answering, she turned to look at Guyne one last time. “Could be our lives are with you now, old Teeb,” she said, her voice cracking. “Don’t you be letting us down.”
His teeth showed briefly in his thin, seamed face. “Not planning to, old Teeba. Get on now. Rikkard’ll have need of you.”
Anakin took another rib-cracking breath. “Teeba—”
“I know,” she snapped, retreating. “Yavid. I said I’d look, and I will. I’m an honest one—even if you aren’t.”
She broke into a flat-footed run. He watched her for a few short, uneven strides, feeling Guyne’s measured stare.
Don’t look at me, old man. Fix that generator, would you?
Anakin hurt so much now it would be easy just to… give in. Give up. Let go. But he couldn’t do that. Hundreds of lives were depending on him. He had to stand here and take it until the generator was fixed—or his heart gave out. So he closed his eyes. Whether it made sense or not he always found it easier to focus his will when cocooned in darkness.
With sight denied him all his other senses leapt to keener life. The stink of the shield generator’s scorched circuitry. The stink of burning damotite from the exploded refinery. The stink of his own sweat. He heard—felt—three more explosions. Smaller this time, in swift succession. There were shouts, sirens. Sounds and echoes drumming. The worst of the Force’s insistent warning had faded, leaving him scoured hollow and stunned. Now all he felt in the Force was confusion, fear and pain. Everything he usually felt, no matter where he was. It was terrible and yet, in the strangest way, also comforting. He knew how to deal with that.
It was the unknown that made him nervous.
How long had he been standing here, holding back the storm? Probably less than an hour. It felt like days. Years. He didn’t have much time before the choice of whether to let go or endure would be out of his hands. Even the Chosen One had limits.
He remembered himself as a small boy, boasting to Qui-Gon at his mother’s rough table.
Has anyone ever seen a Podrace? I’m the only human who can do it.
And now he was probably the only Jedi who could turn himself into a living storm shield.
It isn’t boasting. It’s the truth. I’ve got a knack for beating the odds.
Now all he had to do was beat these odds for just a little bit longer…
Sweat pouring, heart pounding, dimly aware that he was burning himself out, Anakin clung to the Force like a child to its mother’s hand. Time passed. He passed with it, in silence.
“All right,” said Guyne at last. “I think that’s got it. Teeb Markl—”
Stirring, he opened his eyes. “Teeb?”
“We’re going to try the generator. Get ready.”
He managed to nod.
The other three men stepped back from the generator as Guyne, sore and sorry and tired, took a deep breath and reconnected the power supply. He flipped a series of switches, waited—waited—then activated the shield.
With a sizzling hum the storm shield came back online. Guyne and his three friends cheered, tiredly ecstatic… and Anakin slumped, falling boneless and graceless to the hard, dry ground.
He could feel himself shaking. Teeth chattering, lungs aching for air, he rolled on to his side and curled into a ball. His lightsaber, undiscovered, banged against his ribs as Torbel swung and spun around him. Vaguely he was aware of agitated voices calling his name and concerned hands poking and prodding to see if he was still in one piece. He couldn’t say. He couldn’t answer their anxious, shouted questions. He couldn’t even tell if he was still hurting or if what he felt now was just the memory of pain. Only once before had he ever felt anything close to this, and that was on Geonosis, in the cave, after Dooku’s savage Force lightning had come close to killing him. After a while… eons… the worst of the shuddering passed. He opened his eyes, uncurled his spine and looked up. Yes, Torbel had a storm shield—and it wasn’t him. On the other side of the plasma the theta storm continued to spit radioactive rage.
Spit away. I don’t care. You’re not getting in.
He rolled onto his hands and knees and then levered himself upright. Reaching hands helped him, and he was grateful for that. Red and black spots danced before his eyes. He had to blink and blink to clear his vision.
“Steady there, young Teeb,” said Guyne, holding tight to his elbow. “Went down hard, you did. Just you catch your breath.”
“I’m all right,” he said, and was startled to hear how raw his voice sounded. Staggering, he turned to look across the darkened village toward the refinery. The flames were dying down, and the smoke. B
ut the air was still tainted and thick. He tried not to think about the poison he was sucking into his lungs.
He looked back at Guyne. “Stay here and keep an eye on that generator, Teeb. And if it looks like blowing again send for me. I’ll come back.”
In the shifting light the old villager’s salt-gray eyebrows lifted. “Mighty sure of yourself you are, for a young Teeb,” he said, very dry. “Never knew a Lanteeban farmer with your knack of taking charge. Never knew any farmer could hold back a theta storm, neither. Not with the power of his mind.”
Behind him, his friends nodded agreement, a small knot of suspicion even though they were grateful.
Anakin sighed. “Teeb Guyne, we both know I’m not a farmer. Will you stay here?”
“We’ll stay,” said Guyne, nodding. “And if we’re needful of a Jedi we’ll know where to look.”
Wonderful. Obi-Wan’s going to kill me.
He had no hope of Force-sprinting his way to the ruined refinery. The vicious edge of his pain had dulled, but every bone and muscle and sinew still ached. His sense of the Force was fiercely dimmed… and how long it would take for his numb shock to subside he couldn’t begin to guess. He’d never exhausted himself like this before.
There’s a first time for everything, I suppose. I just really wish that this wasn’t it.
Gagging at the stench of burned damotite, he pushed himself into a stumbling run, left the villagers behind him and went in search of Obi-Wan.
It was the anguished sobbing that shocked him awake.
Dazed, Obi-Wan opened his eyes. Then he sat up, coughing, and grimaced as old and new bruises alike complained. The taste of thick smoke, burned wiring, and scorched earth was foul. Looking around, he realized he’d been laid out on the ground a good distance beyond the entrance to the refinery—much farther than the explosion would have thrown him, surely. Which meant someone must have dragged him out of the way and then left him.
The refinery was ripped apart, flames flickering in the debris. Some villagers had formed a bucket chain and were steadily passing containers of water from the artesian well and throwing them on the fire. Did they have no chemical suppressants? And then he saw a scattering of discarded canisters. Which meant they’d had them, used them, and were now making do.
Even with the portable arc lights there was barely enough illumination to see clearly. Everything was ghostly in the haze of stinking, greenish gray smoke. Damotite smoke. So they were all breathing poison?
Oh, wonderful. Because things have been going so well up till now.
Nearby, someone was sobbing.
He cast about for the source of the awful sound. There. Not even a stone’s throw distant, half concealed in shadow—a huddled collection of villagers. It was a young woman weeping, collapsed against someone older. Someone he recognized.
“Teeba Jaklin!”
She broke off her murmuring to the crying girl and turned her suspicious gaze on him. “Teeb Yavid—if that’s even your name.”
“It’ll do,” he said warily, getting to his feet. “Where’s—my cousin? Have you seen him?”
Jaklin stared through the eddying smoke toward the section of storm shield that had failed. “Yes. He says to tell you he’ll come when he can.”
What? Anakin was still standing between the theta storm and the village? It was hard to believe that even he could endure such stress for so long. “You—know what he’s doing?”
“And what he is,” she said, nodding. “What you both are, Teeb.”
Obi-Wan felt his lips twist in a wry smile. “Trouble?”
“I suppose that’s yet to be seen.”
Since she knew, since she’d guessed, he took a moment to reach out through the Force and make sure Anakin was all right. What he felt made his heart thump hard.
Anakin, hold on.
And then he looked again at Jaklin. “I am sorry, Teeba. It wasn’t meant to turn out this way.”
“No,” she said, as quiet as he was, and let her cheek rest against the softly weeping girl’s head. “A lot of things weren’t.”
The worst of the fire was extinguished now, the bucket chain winding down. Relieved, he couldn’t sense the kind of panic or alarm that meant a similar disaster was brewing elsewhere in the village.
“The power plant? The mine? Devi? Rikkard? They’re all unscathed? What about the artesian well? Devi said—”
“The irrigation system was blown out by the power surge,” said Jaklin, her voice thin with exhaustion and shock. “We’ll need to wait for the storm to pass, and daylight, to get a proper look. The mine and the power plant stand. Devi’s working herself into a collapse, but she’ll not give way.” She shook her head. “She’s a good woman. We’d be in trouble without her.”
“What about casualties? I tried to clear the refinery. Did everyone—” The look on her face silenced him. Suddenly apprehensive, he looked around again. “Teeba? Where’s Arrad? Is he—”
“We’ve a sick house,” said Jaklin, and gestured in the direction of the square. “Arrad’s there, with the others badly hurt.”
His mouth dried. “How many others? How badly hurt?”
“Nine, Teeb Yavid.” Jaklin’s eyes were shadowed with misery. “But Arrad’s the worst. Rikkard’s left him there with Teeba Sufi and Teeba Brandeh. They see to our most poorly between them. Sufi worked as a hospitaler once, off in Lantibba.”
Stang. Stang. “And when you say he’s the worst…”
She heaved a deep sigh. “I’m told you did your best to save him, Yav—” A sharp head shake. “What’s your real name, Teeb? It’s a lie to call you Yavid and this is no night for untruths.”
“Obi-Wan,” he said. “Jaklin, is he dying?”
Jaklin shrugged. “He could be, Obi-Wan,” she said, close to defeat. Then she looked up. “We all could be, if this storm don’t ease so we can lower the shields and lose this smoke.”
So. They were breathing in poison. “I thought those pills you gave me and Mar—Anakin—”
“They’ll not do you the same good as the rest of us,” she said. “We’ve been taking them all our days here. But not even our secret will keep us from sickening if we breathe in much more of this filth.” Her chin jerked at the drifting smoke. “Could be you and Anakin won’t do too badly, though. Seeing as you’re not regular people.”
She was bitter, and he couldn’t blame her for it. “Teeba, I need to see Arrad. There might be something I can do to help him. If I leave you here—”
“Yes, leave me.” Jaklin frowned at the twisted tumble of overheated, smoking rubble before them and the villagers who still remained with their buckets and hope. “It seems we’re truly done here, with the refinery in ruins and our future with it. I’ll see you at the sick house by and by. Now you’re up and sound I’ll need to get to my duties.”
“And where is Rikkard, if he’s not at the sick house? Do you know?”
“Last I saw he was to the power plant,” she said. “It’s got to take first place, if we’re to have any chance there won’t be another surge along the grid.” Fear shivered through her. “Another surge will kill us, Teeb. Can you do anything about that?”
Obi-Wan felt his belly twist. “I don’t know. We’ll try.”
“You try and we’ll be grateful.”
And what was that—blackmail? Or simply the voice of desperation? “Jaklin, we’ll try.”
Leaving her to her duty he made his way to the sick house. The villagers he passed scarcely paid him attention, too caught up in the disaster to care for a farmer from Voteb. Jaklin clearly hadn’t told anyone what she’d learned about him and Anakin. If she had they’d be stopping him, disaster or no.
He felt his breath catch. Arrad. He should’ve drawn his lightsaber on the young man after all, because the truth was out now, regardless.
I might have saved his life instead of—
And then, reaching the edge of the empty village square, seeing lights in the charter house and what had to be the si
ck house, two doors farther down, the despair lifted. He felt a stirring in the Force—a bruised and battered and wonderfully familiar presence.
“Obi-Wan!”
He and Anakin met in the middle of the deserted street. During their years as Master and Padawan he’d done his best to break Anakin’s childish dependence on demonstrations of affection. He’d failed. And now, full of relief, he found himself reaching out to clasp his former student’s shoulder. The fitful illumination from the square’s plasma lights showed him Anakin’s face, and the price he’d paid for keeping the theta storm at bay.
It was a moment before he could trust his voice.
“There you are! I was beginning to think you’d gone off somewhere for a nap.”
Sunken-eyed, Anakin dredged up a smile. “Ha-ha. You all right?”
“I’m fine, but Arrad’s not,” he said. “We were caught when the refinery blew.”
Anakin raised an eyebrow. “So if it’s not crashing vehicles it’s exploding factories? Obi-Wan—”
“I know, I know. I’m incorrigible. And quite possibly a bad-luck charm.” Greenish-gray smoke eddied around the plasma lights. “Anakin—the burned damotite—”
“It’s toxic, I know,” said Anakin. His ghastly smile returned, just for a moment. “And I thought we were in trouble before.”
He didn’t want to say it, or even think it, but he had to. “I’m not sure how soon, but things are going to get worse. Whatever’s hunting us? It felt you.”
Anakin’s face went still. “I didn’t have a choice, Master. The shield collapsed and the storm—I couldn’t let it—”
Master. “I know you couldn’t. I’m not angry. If anything, I’m astonished. Anakin, what you managed—” Obi-Wan shook his head. “I’m not certain that Yoda himself could’ve held this wretched storm back the way you did, for as long as you did. You saved the village.”