by Karen Miller
“There, Jaklin,” said Rikkard. “You can’t ask for more than that.”
Looking at Jaklin, Anakin thought she could, and wanted to, but Rikkard’s glower changed her mind. “Our poor village,” she whispered. “Will the bad times never end?”
“Yes, they will,” said Rikkard, his voice unsteady. “They have to. Nothing bad lasts forever.”
Anakin felt a little catch, underneath his ribs.
No. It just feels that way sometimes.
Rikkard and Jaklin stared at each other, lost in a private, wordless conversation.
Aware of Obi-Wan’s simmering displeasure, Anakin considered the storm shield pulsing above their heads. The design dynamics assured them of an osmotic oxygen supply. Was it possible for the droids to somehow tamper with that? Was there a way to seal the shield from the outside so they could suffocate Torbel into submission?
Maybe. But they’d have to think of it first. Droids aren’t big on thinking.
Right. So, what else could go wrong?
Aside from us running out of liquid damotite, another crisis in the power plant, more generators fusing, using up all our water and food and our message not getting through to the Temple… or if it did, help not getting here soon enough. Or not getting here at all.
He was starting to tire of discovering new and more interesting kinds of trouble.
Stirring out of silence, Jaklin folded her arms. “Even if we thought the same on this, Rikkard—and we don’t—it’s not a choice you and I can make for the village.”
“I agree,” said Obi-Wan. “Call a meeting, Rikkard. Give your friends and neighbors all the facts and let them decide what’s to be done.”
“And you’ll abide by our choice?” said Jaklin, belligerent again. “No fancy Jedi tricks to get your own way?”
Anakin watched Obi-Wan recoil, almost imperceptibly. Despite their efforts to help Torbel, despite the lives they’d saved, Jaklin was still so angry. Terrified of the danger they’d brought to her village, offended they’d come to her under false pretenses, and mortified that she’d let herself be deceived. He understood how she felt. He could feel how she felt. So could Obi-Wan. Sometimes that was the problem with being a Jedi.
Obi-Wan exhaled slowly. “Of course not, Teeba. Whatever you decide will be binding upon us. Now, if you’ll excuse me, while you and your people are debating the problem I’ll return to the sick house. Send for me when a decision has been reached.”
With a shallow bow, he turned and walked away. Watching him, knowing that a confrontation between them was only postponed, not avoided, Anakin breathed out a sigh of his own.
“You’ve displeased him,” said Rikkard. “He wanted you to follow his lead.”
Obi-Wan entered the sick house and closed its door behind him.
Glancing at Rikkard, Anakin nodded. “I was his student for many years. He taught me almost everything I know about being a Jedi. Yes. He wanted me to follow his lead.”
“But you didn’t,” said Jaklin. “Some would call that disrespectful. Arrogant, even. For all you’re tall and have a way with machinery and a few clever Jedi tricks stuffed into your pockets, you’re a boy still. Who are you to ignore what he thinks? Anyone can see he’s a man of experience.”
“Yes, he is,” Anakin agreed. “He’s a great man, Teeba Jaklin. And it may turn out that he’s right and I’m wrong and we do have to surrender to those battle droids. But like I said—that’s not my first choice.”
Rikkard dragged a hand down his scarred face. “He’s trying to protect us.”
“I know.” And that’s the trouble. “So am I.”
“Anakin…” Rikkard stared as though he could see inside him to some hidden, unspoken truth. “Are you afraid?”
“Yes,” he said simply. “I’m afraid that because we came here, more of your people will get hurt, or worse. I’m afraid that while we’re stuck behind the shield something will go wrong that I can’t fix. I’m afraid that in disagreeing with Obi-Wan I’ve hurt him, and our friendship.” I’m afraid that I’ll die on your horrible planet and never see Padmé again. “I’m a man, Rikkard. I feel fear. But I choose not to let it rule me.”
Some of the tension in Rikkard’s tired eyes eased. “The honesty’s appreciated, young Teeb. If we can’t speak our hearts to each other, we’ll not survive. That’s what you learn in the mining life. What a man like you learns in yours? Most of it I’m not about to understand. But I’ll tell you what I do know, for you and Arrad are of an age and I know a bit of what you’re feeling—and what he’s feeling, too.”
He nodded toward the sick house.
“Sort yourself to a comfortable place, then find your common ground with him and stand on it. You and him, you need each other. And Torbel needs you standing shoulder to shoulder if we’re going to survive this.”
“Rikkard’s right,” said Teeba Jaklin roughly. “So here’s a question I want answered, young Jedi. Can you untangle what’s tangled between you and your friend so the people of this village pay with no more of their blood?”
“Yes,” he said, and hoped he was telling the truth.
Jaklin sniffed. “Then best you get to untangling, while Rikkard and I call our village meeting.”
TEEBA Sufi WORKED alone in the sick house, struggling to settle the last of the wounded onto their cots. The small main ward was crammed with patients, most of them sleeping or unconscious. Anakin stared at them, appalled. Even he, with his conspicuous lack of talent for healing, could feel their discordant pain in the Force. Their breathing was slow and heavy, ragged exhalations on the borderline of moans. The air smelled thickly of stale blood and fresh poultices. He was abruptly, unpleasantly, reminded of the aftermath on Kothlis, of the countless triage staging areas he’d faced since the start of the war. Pain and loss and terror, everywhere he turned. The cruel difference was that those casualties of war, be they civilian or Republic troops, had access to the very best in medical expertise.
And what have these poor people got? Some bandages, some ointments, a scattering of third-rate pills, and Obi-Wan, who’s exhausted and doesn’t really know what he’s doing.
Obi-Wan, who hadn’t looked around when the sick house door opened. Who was ignoring him as though he didn’t exist.
Stang.
Caught drifting dangerously close to despair, Anakin throttled any further dark thoughts and instead counted the occupied cots. There were twenty-three casualties—a handful from the refinery explosion and the rest from the droid attack. Oh, and Bohle, that little girl’s mother, whose life Obi-Wan had managed to save. The girl—Greti—wasn’t here. She was an odd child, strong with the Force, and wasted in Torbel. It was a pity. Obi-Wan should keep her out of the sick house. It was no place for a young girl. Greti wasn’t Ahsoka.
Seated on a stool beside a laden cot, holding the hand of a villager caught in the open by one of Durd’s mosquito droids, Obi-Wan was doing his best to give the woman strength to overcome her agony. Anakin could feel his struggle in the Force. When it came to medicine Torbel was practically primitive. There was a good chance people here would die of shock and pain, from wounds that a med droid could easily fix.
Mom and I and the other slaves got better medical treatment on Tatooine. But then that was a matter of protecting investments. These people aren’t anyone’s investments. Nobody cares about them except them. And me, now.
And Obi-Wan.
For all his frustration, and his fear that Obi-Wan would never see him as an equal no matter what he did or how many battles he won, he was moved by the depth of compassion he could feel in his former Master.
Why do I keep forgetting that he was raised a Jedi? That he’ll never understand what it is to feel any strong emotion without feeling guilty about it straight after? Everything I was taught to rely on, he was taught to repress or deny. I keep forgetting that.
Looking up from a patient, Teeba Sufi saw him and frowned. “Are you hurt, young Jedi?”
“No, Teeba. But yo
u’re wanted on the square for a village meeting.”
“Don’t be a fool,” she said, fisting her hands on her hips. “We can’t—”
“You should go, Sufi,” Obi-Wan said quietly. “I’ll care for your people.”
“Fine,” Sufi said, reluctant. “But for a few minutes, Obi-Wan, no longer. And while I’m gone you should dose your friend. He’s greensick too, though he probably won’t admit it.”
As the front door closed behind her, Obi-Wan eased out of his healing trance. Then he released his patient’s hand and glanced up. “If you’ve come to say sorry merely to smooth things over, don’t.”
Deep breath, deep breath. “I haven’t.”
“Our presence in Torbel poses a clear and present danger to these people, Anakin.”
“I know. And I don’t like it any more than you do,” he retorted. “But leaving aside the real chance of them being slaughtered if we lower the shield, consider this. If us holding out against those droids for even a few days gives our side a chance of getting here with a battle group, then how can we not do it? In my opinion, the harm is in giving Durd two pawns to use against the Republic.”
Obi-Wan smoothed the sleeping woman’s hair back from her forehead and stood. “In your opinion.”
“That’s right. I do have opinions, Obi-Wan. And every so often they’re not going to be the same as yours.”
“Yes, Anakin,” said Obi-Wan, giving him the kind of look that had shriveled him when he was still a boy. “You’ve made that abundantly clear.”
So much for finding common ground. At the rate he was letting his temper get the better of him they’d soon be standing on opposite sides of a canyon. With a wrenching effort he pushed emotion aside.
“What’s greensickness?”
“Damotite poisoning,” said Obi-Wan, and pointed to a cupboard against the back wall, beside the sink. “You’ll find a bottle of medicine and a dosing cup in there. Top shelf on the right. Help yourself.”
Anakin did as he was told, gagging as the vile concoction slid down his throat. Ignoring him, Obi-Wan moved to Arrad’s cot, dropped into a crouch and rested his hand against the young man’s forehead. Arrad looked peaceful enough—but was it the calm of healing or the dreaded sloth of impending death? Obi-Wan’s expression, remote and withdrawn, gave nothing away as he focused his energy inward.
Which I’m pretty sure means he’s done talking to me right now.
And that meant the finding of common ground would have to wait. Perhaps the whole question would soon be irrelevant anyway. The villagers might vote to expel them.
Except I want to ask him if he’s sensed anything in the Force. Does he have one of his bad feelings? Can he see how this madness is going to unfold?
Apparently he’d have to wait for answers.
He rinsed the dosing cup in the sick house’s basin, then returned it and the bottle to their rightful place. “For what it’s worth I am sorry, Obi-Wan. I never meant to disrespect you. I just—I need to honor my own truths.”
Obi-Wan looked up. The light shafting through the window fell full across his face, bleaching him sand-pale. “I know you do, Anakin. And I know you want to save these people. But the truth is not everyone can be saved.”
Anakin shook his head. “I don’t believe that.”
“I know that, too.” Obi-Wan frowned, very faintly. “It’s your greatest weakness… and your greatest strength.”
And just like that he was ambushed by regret. I can’t leave it like this. I can’t. “I don’t want you angry with me, Obi-Wan. We won’t get through this if you—if we—”
“I’m not angry. I don’t get angry. Anger is a counterproductive emotion.”
Yeah. Right. “Disappointed then,” he said, because there was no use arguing. “Displeased. Whatever word you like.”
“Anakin.” Obi-Wan rubbed his temple. He had another headache brewing, bright sparkles of pain dancing in the Force. “As you say, we had a difference of opinion. And now the matter is out of our hands. Why don’t you go and get started on your shield modifications, just in case? When I’m finished here I’ll join you.”
He was right, they both had work to do. Only… “I really do think our message got through, Obi-Wan. I think Yoda’s going to send help.”
Not looking at him, Obi-Wan nodded. “I hope so.”
The village square was crowded with people, arms waving and voices raised as they argued over what to do about the Jedi. Pausing on the sick house step, Anakin watched as Rikkard and Jaklin moved among them, soothing, nodding, trying to be the calm voices of reason. Then he headed for the power plant. The Force was bright with the villagers’ emotions—anger and fright, uncertainty and resentment. And these were the people who would in the next short while decide his and Obi-Wan’s fate, either granting them a reprieve or sending them to face imprisonment and probable death.
His life in the hands of strangers was bad enough. But worse was the ominously silent and motionless pack of droids on the other side of the shield. They didn’t show any sign of firing. Oddly, he’d have been happier if they started shooting again.
To his surprise he found Devi still in the plant’s monitoring station. After the long night and the terrible morning, she looked fragile with weariness. Only her rickety antigrav harness was keeping her upright.
“I thought you’d be out there with the others,” he said. “Debating what to do with me and Obi-Wan.”
She shrugged, one hand balancing her slight, ungainly body against a bank of monitors. “Rikkard knows what I think.”
Reading her was easy: fear and fury and gratitude in equal measure. She was smiling. He smiled back. “Thank you, Devi. I wish I could promise nothing bad will happen to Torbel if we do stay, but—” His turn to shrug. “I can’t.”
“Something bad will happen everywhere else if you don’t, won’t it?” she said. “Something bad is happening everywhere else, with the war.”
He was sick of painful truths. “It is.”
Sighing, Devi smoothed her hand over the ranks of lights and switches that told her the story of Torbel’s tenuous lifeline. “People say it doesn’t matter, what’s happening out there. They say it’s got nothing to do with us on Lanteeb. Would you hate me if I said I used to say the same thing?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Well, I did,” she said softly, shame in her voice. “And then I met you and Obi-Wan. Now things are so complicated.”
So was that how it worked? Was that how history was altered? A chance meeting… a sudden crisis… two men in the wrong place at the right time, following their consciences and changing minds…
Is it as easy as that, to change the fate of a galaxy?
“Nothing’s ever as simple as it looks on the surface, Devi,” he said. “If I’ve learned nothing else as a Jedi, I’ve learned that.”
“Anakin—” She hesitated. “What’s it like, being a Jedi?”
“Wonderful,” he said. “Terrifying. Overwhelming.”
“Oppressive?”
The question startled him. “Why would you say that?”
“I don’t know. Just—” She blushed. “Sometimes I feel oppressed, knowing everyone relies on me to keep this power plant running. I thought maybe sometimes you felt like that, too. Everyone in the Republic expects you to save them, don’t they?”
Her awkward, unexpected sympathy touched him. “I’m fine, Devi. Don’t go losing sleep over me.” He tapped the nearest bank of monitors. “I’ve thought of some tricks to strengthen the storm shield. I’d like to get started, if it’s all right with you.”
She smiled again, tired but willing. “Sure. I’ll give you a hand.”
Nearly an hour later, Obi-Wan found them in the plant’s substation, reconfiguring the liquid damotite’s flow pattern. Feeling his approach, catching a swift sense of his habitually disciplined emotions—worry, guilt, uncertainty, determination—Anakin turned. The look on Obi-Wan’s face said it all.
“We ca
n stay?”
“Yes,” said Obi-Wan, subdued. “Now it’s our job to see that the villagers don’t regret their decision.”
“We won’t,” said Devi. “We—” And then she gasped. “Oh, no…”
The droids were firing again.
Anakin turned to her. “We’re safe, Devi. They can’t get in.”
“For now,” she muttered. Then she straightened. “All right. Let’s get back to work.”
EVENTUALLY THEY STOPPED listening to the relentless, crumping thud-thud-thud of blaster bolts hitting the shield.
After several hours of checking the primary power conduits for short circuits and replacing the most suspect wiring, Obi-Wan returned to his self-imposed duties in the sick house. Three hours after that, Anakin sent Devi off to get some rest.
“We can’t afford you collapsing,” he said, when she protested. “Now do as you’re told. Please.”
It was the kind of high-handedness Padmé deplored. Had she been here, she’d have scolded—but Devi gave in.
“Fine. I’ll take a couple of hours,” she said. “And then I’ll be back!”
Welcoming the solitude, keeping one eye on the monitors, he started the tedious task of cleaning yellow section’s corroded secondary fuel-injection valves. As far as he could tell, they hadn’t seen an oil bath in months. But even though the task was important, more than anything he wanted to seek for Padmé in the Force, to make sure she was all right. He didn’t dare. Not with Obi-Wan so close. Her absence was an ache in his chest. Sometimes, missing her, he found it hard to breathe. And the thought of dying here, of leaving her alone in a dangerous galaxy, frightened him so much, his fingers fumbled the dirty valves. Eyes closed, he conjured her beautiful face and the feel of her skin warm against his.
Be safe, my love. Stay out of trouble.
Devi made good on her threat and returned two hours later. “They’ve stopped firing, Anakin. Did you realize? What a relief. Now get some rest—and eat. I’ll manage without you.”