by Karen Miller
“So you don’t believe in it?”
“I didn’t say that.” Shaking his head, Obi-Wan stared at the floor. “Qui-Gon believed in it. And I believed in him. And there’s no escaping the fact you’re the most gifted Jedi the Temple has ever seen.” He looked up. “So if Yoda’s reluctant to risk you, Anakin, it’s not on a whim. He has good reason.”
“And like I said. If the prophecy’s true I won’t die on Lanteeb.”
Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow. “Then I suppose we must hope the prophecy’s true.”
Their transport arrived. Obi-Wan directed it to the comm center, then on to the accommodation sector. Said nothing more until they reached the Temple’s sprawling communications hub.
“So. Sleep well,” he said, as the transport doors swished open. “And I’ll see you at breakfast.”
Anakin nodded. “Breakfast it is. But not too early. I want to enjoy a comfortable bed for as long as I can.” And make up for the time I lost with Padmé by being late. “Say—nine?”
“If you insist,” said Obi-Wan, with the hint of a smile. “Lazybones.”
As the doors closed again and the conveyor zipped away, he breathed a sigh of relief. Of dry-mouthed anticipation.
Padmé.
“Belay destination,” he ordered. “Transport pool.”
There was guilt, somewhere. Buried deep. Not weeping too hard. He’d be leaving Coruscant within the next two or three days. This might be his only night with her, their only chance to be together in this cruelly short visit home. After tonight the mission would come first. And at any moment she could get called away.
And me? I could die. As long as we’re fighting Dooku and his Separatists, every sunrise could be my last. Sleep in this place? Alone? Sorry, Obi-Wan. No way.
“Very well,” said Bail. “I’ll get on this immediately. You should have everything you need—identification chips, flight plan, falsified backgrounds—within two days. Sooner if we’re lucky. Are you sure you’re right for transportation?”
Sealed into a private comm cubicle, Obi-Wan nodded. “Yes. And we’ll take care of our clothing requirements, too. There’ll need to be some unique modifications.”
“Fine.”
They were talking via comm panel, not holodisplay. Bail’s face on the bright, flat screen was grave. Almost… uncertain.
“Is everything all right?”
Bail shrugged. “Sure. Why wouldn’t it be? You’re only flying into a gundark’s nest on my say-so and not much else.”
Though he wasn’t altogether comfortable himself, Obi-Wan smiled. “Well. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Which might explain my trepidation,” Bail said, unsmiling. “I suppose I should be flattered that a Jedi would ask ‘how high’ when I say ‘jump,’ but—”
“Bail,” he said sharply. “Senator or not, you don’t have the power to make the Jedi do anything we don’t wish to do. I told you. Yoda has said we should look into this. That should be enough for you.”
“You and Anakin coming back in one piece will be enough for me,” Bail retorted. “Anything less than that and—” He blew out a hard breath. “Seriously, Obi-Wan. I can stop this before it starts. If you have any doubts, any kind of second thoughts—say the word and this mission is scrubbed.”
He was a good man. A good friend. “Bail, if you’re asking whether or not I trust your instincts, the answer is yes. I trust them. I trust you. Anakin and I will be fine. We shall discover what Dooku’s up to on Lanteeb and we shall thwart him and then we shall come home again. You have my word.”
“And I’ll hold you fast to it, Master Jedi,” said Bail, not quite smiling. “All right. I think that’s it. I’ll comm you when it’s time for your intel briefing. Good night. Sleep well.”
“You, too,” he said, though he suspected that neither of them would.
Entering the guest accommodation wing, nodding an absentminded acknowledgment to someone’s greeting, Obi-Wan hesitated. Probably he shouldn’t. He needed to stay focused, and she was unwell. She didn’t need his burdens, she had too many of her own.
But it had been so good to see her again.
Motionless in the airy, softly lit antechamber, he closed his eyes. Reached out through the Force, delicately questing.
Taria?
Yes. There she was. Not on this floor, but close by. One level down, where the Jedi who either lived permanently in the Temple or who were here for longer than a few days made their home.
Taria?
Nothing. And then, a ripple of surprise. Cautious pleasure… and a definite feeling of welcome.
The door to her room slid open as he approached. He entered, and it closed softly behind him. The small chamber’s lights were dimmed, its air warm. Wrapped in a vibrant blue robe, she sat cross-legged on the meditation pad she’d placed between the plain, narrow bed and the other wall. Her blue-green hair, freed from its braid, spread shimmering over her shoulders and down her back like a waterfall caught out of time. Her tawny gold eyes were too bright.
“Taria,” he said, feeling fear and anger heat his blood. “You overdid it in class today. I told you to slow down. Why don’t you listen? Your remisssion is precarious.”
She laughed. “Am I your Padawan now Obi-Wan?”
“It’s not funny,” he said, unmollified. “I wish you were my Padawan. Then I could make you mind me.”
“As Anakin minded you?” she mocked. “Tell me again how that went?” Then she relented. Leaned over and patted the bed. “Don’t stand there cross at me. Sit down.”
He perched on the edge of the thin mattress, shamefully close to sulking. Swiveling to face him, she reached out and pressed her cool hand to his forehead. “You’re so sad,” she murmured. “So weary. Deep down in your bones. This blasted war…” She stroked his hair, fingers skimming. “And now you’re leaving again. Where are you going?”
Of course she’d sense it. He let his eyes drift closed. How strange it felt, to be touched with tenderness. His life was so brutal now. Loud and bloody and full of pain.
“I can’t say,” he whispered. “I would if—”
“No,” she said. “It’s all right. Can you say when?”
Her hand moved without ceasing. Her touch woke memory; stirred sorrow. “Soon.”
“You and Anakin?”
“Yes.”
“You’re frightened.”
Never ever did he pretend with Taria. “A little.”
Her small chamber smelled sweet. So did she. Her palm came to rest against his cheek. He felt himself lean into it, felt something inside him give… or break.
“Sleep,” she said. “I’ll watch over you. You’ll be safe. No bad dreams.”
He opened his eyes. “No. You’re not well. I can’t take your bed.”
“Obi-Wan…” Her generous lips curved in a wry smile. “No matter where you are tonight, I won’t be sleeping.”
Because she never ever pretended with him, either, not when it counted, she let him feel her encroaching disease. Took his face between her hands and pressed her thumbtips to his closed eyes, making sure his tears could not fall.
“It’s not your fault. You didn’t do this. Sleep.”
So he pulled off his boots and eased out of his clothing and crawled exhausted into her bed. She sat beside him on her meditation pad, breathing gently, then sang to him until he slept.
In the morning, when he woke, he was alone.
Chapter Ten
Bail commed late the next afternoon, much sooner than expected. Ready. Come plainclothes. Accompanying the curt command were coordinates for a meeting place somewhere far less conspicuous than either the Temple or Bail’s Senate office. Obi-Wan and Anakin took a speeder from the transport pool, programmed the onboard nav computer with their destination, and trusted the autopilot to get them there in one piece.
It took almost an hour. In the end, there proved to be a dingy, tenantless office block on the outskirts of the run-down and poorly populated Bahrin
industrial sector.
“Gentlemen,” said the thin, nondescript woman in the building’s open ground-floor doorway. She was dressed in the shabbiest gray tunic and trousers, and her gray hair was scraped back from her angular, unadorned face in an ugly rat’s tail. “Follow me.”
Obi-Wan exchanged a look with Anakin, who nodded. There was something unsettling about the woman’s demeanor. But if Bail trusted her…
She led them to an equally dingy upstairs office, where Bail was waiting for them. Clad in a baggily ill-fitting brown suit and scuffed, badly worn shoes, with his hair greased down and his fingernails dirty, he looked like he’d be turned away from his own apartment complex. Beneath the carefully applied grunge he was hollow-eyed with weariness, as though he’d worked through the night and still hadn’t stopped. Which had to be the case, surely, for him to have achieved such swift results.
“Nice outfits,” he greeted them, turning away from the partially boarded window with the faintest shadow of a smile. “Very un-Jedi.”
Obi-Wan looked down at his threadbare woolen overshirt and patched trousers. “So they’re plain enough for you?”
“That was my stipulation,” said the still-unidentified woman, closing the paint-peeled office door behind her. “This isn’t an area known for its Jedi visitors.”
“I sensed that,” said Anakin, pulling his lightsaber from inside his own faded jacket and laying it on the room’s battered conference table.
Bail glanced from Anakin to the nondescript woman. A perceptive man, he could feel the undercurrent of tension humming between them. “Master Kenobi, Master Skywalker, this is Agent Varrak from the Special Operations Brigade,” he said, deliberately pleasant. “She’s taking point on the Lanteeb mission. Agent Varrak, Masters Kenobi and Skywalker. Two of the best Jedi in the Republic.”
“Yes, Senator,” said Agent Varrak with a brisk nod. “I know who they are. And I’m aware of their reputations and their exploits.”
The woman was almost overtly hostile, her distaste for the Jedi scraping his nerves—and Anakin’s—unpleasantly. Puzzled, Obi-Wan looked at Bail. Was it something we said? But before Bail could diplomatically intercede, Anakin took a step sideways, away from the conference table. Opened space between himself and the agent. His face was calm, his eyes hotly focused.
“And when you say aware…?”
Obi-Wan flicked a warning glance at Bail. Raised his hand, just a little. I’ve got this. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Agent Varrak. Your assistance with this mission is greatly appreciated, by us and the Jedi Council.”
Pinch-lipped, the agent nodded again. “We all serve the Republic, Master Kenobi.”
“And your service might well help to avert disaster. Thank you.”
He held the woman’s gaze, showing her nothing but sincerity, feeling Anakin’s resigned annoyance. For all his efforts, his former Padawan never had developed a taste for pouring honey on a sour situation. Anakin tended to prefer a—blunter—approach.
Well, not this time, my young friend. Not when we need her more than she needs us.
Agent Varrak relaxed, fractionally. The smallest hint of retreat. “You’re welcome.”
He smiled. “Are we to understand you’ve prepared the documentation we’ll require to infiltrate Lanteeb?”
“I have.” She reached beneath the conference table and retrieved a plain, inconspicuous workcase. “Perhaps we might be seated and get this taken care of? I’m sure we’re all busy, with other places to be.” She glanced sideways. “Senator?”
“Yes, of course,” said Bail, taking the nearest cracked-leather chair. “Master Kenobi, Master Skywalker, Agent Varrak is an identification specialist,” he added as they sat. “You can be sure your new personas will withstand the most rigorous Separatist scrutiny.”
“They’d better,” Anakin muttered. “Seeing as how our lives are going to depend on them.”
Agent Varrak looked at him, dispassionate. “Your lives are perfectly safe with me. This isn’t my first nerf muster, Teeb Markl.”
Anakin came close to sneering. “Catchy name.”
Uncomfortably aware of Bail’s dismay, Obi-Wan tugged at his tunic. Snared Anakin’s gaze with his own and held it hard. Please. Let’s not do this. Anakin’s jaw tightened, his eyes sharp with temper—and then he capitulated and looked away.
Oblivious, or uncaring, Agent Varrak opened the workcase and withdrew two sealed packets. “Teeb,” she said, handing him and Anakin one each, her tone lecturing, “is the official designated honorific for any legally adult male Lanteeban. The equivalent female honorific is Teeba. Teeb Markl and Teeb Yavid—that would be you, Master Kenobi—are cousins. Farmers who lost the family holding after a prolonged drought put them into debt. They—you—are returning home to Lanteeb after working a three-season forestry laborer’s contract on Alderaan. You hail from the village of Voteb, on the northernmost tip of the settled Lanteeban continent.”
Obi-Wan frowned at her. “I don’t understand. I thought our knowledge of Lanteeb was severely limited.”
“It is,” said Agent Varrak. “But there really are two Lanteeban cousins named Markl and Yavid, and they have helped us prepare for this mission.”
“That’s… impressive,” said Anakin, with a grudging admiration. “How did you manage to find these men? And so fast?”
Bail shrugged. “Sheer luck, Master Skywalker. Senator Amidala’s comment about the Lanteeban engineer got me thinking. Alderaan hires a lot of offplanet workers in the forests and the general agricultural regions. We’re a popular destination for contract labor. The pay and conditions are good, and an Alderaanian reference opens many other doors. Fortunately our Ministry of Employment keeps meticulous records. It was a long shot, but I thought it was worth checking to see if we had any Lanteebans currently on the books.” Another shrug. “Once I was apprised of the cousins’ work status on Alderaan, I pulled the requisite strings and had them brought in.”
“To help,” said Obi-Wan carefully. He looked from Bail to Agent Varrak. “And when you say help…”
Bail sat a little straighter. “We—I—mean help,” he said, and suddenly he was wearing his haughty politician’s face, the princely face of a man who resented being questioned—or doubted. “No strings attached. And when they finished assisting us they were returned to their forestry camp.”
“Which in my opinion was a grave tactical error,” Agent Varrak murmured. “If they change their minds—”
“Pass up asylum and protected Alderaanian immigrant status?” said Bail. “That’s not likely. Agent Varrak, you’ve already lost this argument. Drop it.”
“Senator,” said Agent Varrak, her eyes going blank.
Obi-Wan cleared his throat. “So you’re saying these Lanteebans are free of further government interference?”
“That’s right.”
A glance at Agent Varrak showed him what she thought of that. “Surely it would have been less problematic simply to fabricate identities for us?” he asked.
“How?” said Agent Varrak sourly. “When, as you yourself pointed out, Master Kenobi, our knowledge of Lanteeb is as good as nonexistent.”
Stang. He didn’t have an answer for that.
“So,” said Anakin, “these cover identities—you’re sure they’ll hold up for the duration of our mission?”
Agent Varrak nodded curtly. “We are. Voteb is one of Lanteeb’s remotest villages. The chances of you stumbling across anyone in the city who knows the real cousins or is familiar enough with their home to ask awkward questions are negligible, at best.”
“Looks that way,” said Anakin, and turned. “I think Senator Organa’s right, Obi-Wan. We got lucky. Without all this inside information, I doubt we could make it onto Lanteeb. And better yet—nobody we run across is going to be scared or suspicious of a couple of farmers.”
Lucky or not, he didn’t like it. Not at all. Not that he didn’t trust Bail, or disbelieved his friend when he said the men were in no danger.
That was the truth: They were in no danger from Bail Organa, one of the only two honorable politicians he knew. But that didn’t mean they were totally safe. Agent Varrak’s disapproval of their freedom was proof of that.
And while Bail is powerful, is he powerful enough to override the son of a Sith if they should push Palpatine for a change in the status of these Lanteeban cousins? I think he is—I hope he is—but can I be sure?
Bail was staring at him steadily, a challenge in his eyes. “It’s done, Master Kenobi. Let’s move on, shall we?”
Unhappy, Obi-Wan ran his fingers over the unopened info packet Agent Varrak had given him.
This wretched war. And to think I used to complain whenever Qui-Gon bent the rules even a little bit…
“Master Kenobi,” said Bail, insistent. Wary. “Do we have a problem?”
He looked up. Yes. “No, Senator.” He pushed the info packet aside. “We are indeed fortunate that these cousins were available to assist us.”
“Your ship’s new registry, your personal identichips, and your full bios are in those packets,” said Agent Varrak, unmoved by the continuing tension in the dusty room. “Along with pertinent notes on Lanteeb and the spaceport’s layout, rules, and regulations. Don’t lose the chips, and destroy the bios and briefing notes once you’ve memorized them. If anyone on Lanteeb questions your accents, make sure you stress you’ve been away from home for some time and you’ve picked up some alien inflections. Most importantly, don’t talk about the great nonhuman friends you made on your travels. Do that and you’ll attract all the wrong kind of attention. I’m told you’re arranging your own transport?”
“Don’t worry. We took care of that this morning,” said Anakin. “Although—” He frowned. “If we’re farmers turned forestry workers, how do you explain us having our own ship?”
“You won it in a game of chance,” said Agent Varrak, and sniffed. “And learned to fly it in your free time. This vessel you’ve chosen—it’s nothing too flashy, I hope.”
Obi-Wan flicked another warning glance at Anakin. Don’t rise to her bait. “On the contrary, Agent. It would, for example, attract no attention in this neighborhood.”