by James Luceno
“That’s the last thing any of us wants,” Bail said with a disapproving look at Senator Eekway. “Alderaan has no armed forces; we don’t even have a planetary defense system. A political solution is our only option.”
“Which is the purpose of this petition,” Mon Mothma said, laying her soft hand over Padmé’s. “We’re hoping that a show of solidarity within the Senate might stop Palpatine from further subverting the Constitution, that’s all. With the signatures of a full two thousand Senators—”
“—we still have less than we need to stop his supermajority from amending the Constitution any way he happens to want,” Padmé finished for her. She weighed the reader in her hand. “I am willing to present this to Palpatine, but I am losing faith in the Senate’s readiness, or even ability, to rein him in. I think we should consult the Jedi.”
Because I really think they can help, or because I just can’t stand to lie to my husband? She couldn’t say. She hoped that both were true, though she was sure only of the second.
Bana Breemu examined her long, elegantly manicured fingertips. “That,” she said remotely, “would be dangerous.”
Mon Mothma nodded. “We don’t know where the Jedi stand in all this.”
Padmé sat forward. “The Jedi aren’t any happier with the situation than we are.”
Senator Breemu’s high-arched cheekbones made the look she gave Padmé appear even more distant and skeptical. “You seem … remarkably well informed about Jedi business, Senator Amidala.”
Padmé felt herself flush, and she didn’t trust herself to answer.
Giddean Danu shook his head, doubt plainly written across his dark face. “If we are to openly oppose the Chancellor, we need the support of the Jedi. We need their moral authority. Otherwise, what do we have?”
“The moral authority of the Jedi, such as it is,” Bana Breemu said, “has been spent lavishly upon war; I fear they have none left for politics.”
“One Jedi, then,” Padmé offered to the others. At least let me speak the truth to my love. At least. Please, she pleaded with them silently. “There is one Jedi—one whom I truly know all of us can trust absolutely …”
Her voice trailed off into appalled silence when she realized that she wasn’t talking about Anakin.
This had been all about him when she’d started—all about her love, her need to be open with him, the pain that keeping this secret stabbed her heart at each and every beat—but when the thought had turned to trust, when it became a question of someone she knew, truly and abolutely knew, she could trust—
She discovered that she was talking about Obi-Wan.
Anakin … Something was breaking inside her. Oh, my love, what are they doing to us?
Chi Eekway shook her head. “Patience, Senator.”
Fang Zar unknotted his fingers from his raggedly bushy beard and shrugged. “Yes, we cannot block the Chancellor’s supermajority—but we can show him that opposition to his methods is growing. Perhaps that alone might persuade him to moderate his tactics.”
Bana Breemu went back to examining her fingertips. “When you present the Petition of the Two Thousand, many things may change.”
“But,” Giddean Danu said, “will they change for the better?”
Bail Organa and Mon Mothma exchanged glances that whispered of some shared secret. Bail said slowly, “Let us see what we can accomplish in the Senate before we involve the Jedi.”
And as one after another of the Senators agreed, Padmé could only sit in silence. In mourning.
Grieving for the sudden death of an illusion.
Anakin—Anakin, I love you. If only—
But that if only would take her to a place she could not bear to go. In the end, she could only return to the thought she feared would echo within her for the rest of her life.
Anakin, I’m sorry.
The last of the hovertanks whirred up the ramp into the skyshrouding wedge of the assault cruiser. It was followed by rank upon immaculately regimented rank of clone troopers, marshaled by battalions, marching in perfect synchrony.
Standing alongside Obi-Wan on the landing deck, Anakin watched them go.
He couldn’t quite make himself believe he wasn’t going along.
It wasn’t that he really wanted to go with Obi-Wan to Utapau—even though it’d be a relief to pull out of the political quagmire that was sucking him down. But how could he leave Padmé now? He didn’t even care anymore about being the Jedi to capture Grievous, though such a feat would almost certainly bring him his Mastery. He was no longer certain he needed to be a Master at all.
Through the long, black hours of meditation last night—meditation that was often indistinguishable from brooding—he had begun to sense a deeper truth within the Force: a submerged reality, lurking like a Sarlacc beneath the sunlit sands of Jedi training.
Somewhere down there was all the power he would ever need.
So no, it wasn’t that he wanted to go. It was more, inexplicably, that he wanted Obi-Wan to stay.
There was a cold void in his chest that he was afraid would soon fill with regret, and grief.
Of course there was no chance at all that Obi-Wan wouldn’t go; he’d be the last Jedi in the galaxy to defy an order of the Council. Not for the first time, Anakin found himself wishing that Obi-Wan could be a little more like the late Qui-Gon. Though he’d known Qui-Gon for mere days, Anakin could almost see him right now, brow furrowing as he gently inclined his head over his shorter Padawan; he could almost hear his gentle baritone instructing Obi-Wan to be mindful of the currents of the living Force: to do one’s duty is not always to do right. Concern yourself with right action. Let duty take care of itself.
But he couldn’t say that. Though he’d passed his trials many months ago, to Obi-Wan he was still the learner, not the Master.
All he could say was, “I have a bad feeling about this.”
Obi-Wan was frowning as he watched a clone deck crew load his blue-and-white starfighter onto the assault cruiser’s flight deck. “I’m sorry, Anakin. Did you say something?”
“You’re going to need me on this one, Master.” And he could feel an unexpected truth there, too—if he were to go along, if he could somehow bring himself to forget about Padmé for a few days, if he could somehow get himself away from Palpatine and the Council and his meditations and politics and everything here on Coruscant that was dragging him this way and that way and sucking him under, if he could just tag along and play the Kenobi and Skywalker game for a few days, everything might still be all right.
If only.
“It may be nothing but a wild bantha chase,” Obi-Wan said. “Your job here is much more important, Anakin.”
“I know: the Sith.” The word left a bitter taste in Anakin’s mouth. The Council’s manipulation had a rank stench of politics on it. “I just—” Anakin shrugged helplessly, looking away. “I don’t like you going off without me like this. It’s a bad idea to split up the team. I mean, look what happened last time.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“You want to go spend another few months with somebody like Ventress? Or worse?”
“Anakin.” Anakin could hear a gentle smile in Obi-Wan’s voice. “Don’t worry. I have enough clones to take three systems the size of Utapau’s. I believe I should be able to handle the situation, even without your help.”
Anakin had to answer his smile. “Well, there’s always a first time.”
Obi-Wan said, “We’re not really splitting up, Anakin. We’ve worked on our own many times—like when you took Padmé to Naboo while I went to Kamino and Geonosis.”
“And look how that turned out.”
“All right, bad example,” Obi-Wan admitted, his smile shading toward rueful. “Yet years later, here we all are: still alive, and still friends. My point, Anakin, is that even when we work separately, we work together. We have the same goals: end the war, and save the Republic from the Sith. As long as we’re on the same side, everything will come ou
t well in the end. I’m certain of it.”
“Well …” Anakin sighed. “I suppose you could be right. You are, once in a while. Occasionally.”
Obi-Wan chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Farewell, old friend.”
“Master, wait.” Anakin turned to face him fully. He couldn’t just stand here and let him walk away. Not now. He had to say something…
He had a sinking feeling he might not get another chance.
“Master …,” he said hesitantly, “I know I’ve … disappointed you in these past few days. I have been arrogant. I have … not been very appreciative of your training, and what’s worse, of your friendship. I offer no excuse, Master. My frustration with the Council … I know that none of it is your fault, and I apologize. For all of it. Your friendship means everything to me.”
Obi-Wan gripped Anakin’s mechanical hand, and with his other he squeezed Anakin’s arm above the joining of flesh and metal. “You are wise and strong, Anakin. You are a credit to the Jedi Order, and you have far surpassed my humble efforts at instruction.”
Anakin felt his own smile turn melancholy. “Just the other day, you were saying that my power is no credit to me.”
“I’m not speaking of your power, Anakin, but of your heart. The greatness in you is a greatness of spirit. Courage and generosity, compassion and commitment. These are your virtues,” Obi-Wan said gently. “You have done great things, and I am very proud of you.”
Anakin found he had nothing to say.
“Well.” Obi-Wan looked down, chuckling, releasing Anakin’s hand and arm. “I believe I hear General Grievous calling my name. Good-bye, old friend. May the Force be with you.”
All Anakin could offer in return was a reflexive echo.
“May the Force be with you.”
He stood, still and silent, and watched Obi-Wan walk away. Then he turned and slowly, head hanging, moved toward his speeder.
The Chancellor was waiting.
FREE FALL IN THE DARK
A chill wind scoured the Chancellor’s private landing deck at the Senate Office Building. Anakin stood wrapped in his cloak, chin to his chest, staring down at the deck below his feet. He didn’t feel the chill, or the wind. He didn’t hear the whine of the Chancellor’s private shuttle angling in for a landing, or smell the swirls of brown smog coiling along the wind.
What he saw were the faces of Senators who had stood on this deck to cheer for him; what he heard were exclamations of joy and congratulations when he returned their Supreme Chancellor to them unharmed. What he felt was a memory of hot pride at being the focus of so many eager HoloNet crews, anxious to get even the slightest glimpse of the man who had conquered Count Dooku.
How many days ago had that been? He couldn’t remember. Not many. When you don’t sleep, days smear together into a haze of fatigue so deep it becomes a physical pain. The Force could keep him upright, keep him moving, keep him thinking, but it could not give him rest. Not that he wanted rest. Rest might bring sleep.
What sleep might bring, he could not bear to know.
He remembered Obi-Wan telling him about some poet he’d once read—he couldn’t remember the name, or the exact quote, but it was something about how there is no greater misery than to remember, with bitter regret, a day when you were happy …
How had everything gone so fast from so right to so wrong?
He couldn’t even imagine.
Greasy dust swirled under the shuttle’s repulsors as it settled to the deck. The hatch cycled open, and four of Palpatine’s personal guards glided out, long robes catching the breeze in silken blood-colored ripples. They split into two pairs to flank the doors as the Chancellor emerged beside the tall, bulky form of Mas Amedda, the Speaker of the Senate. The Chagrian’s horns tilted over Palpatine as they walked together, seemingly deep in conversation.
Anakin moved forward to meet them. “Chancellor,” he said, bowing a greeting. “Lord Speaker.”
Mas Amedda looked at Anakin with a curl to his blue lips that, on a human, would have signaled disgust; it was a Chagrian smile. “Greetings, Your Grace. I trust the day finds you well?”
Anakin’s eyes felt as if they’d been dusted with sand. “Very well, Lord Speaker, thank you for asking.”
Amedda turned back to Palpatine, and Anakin’s polite smile faded to a twist of contempt. Maybe he was just overtired, but somehow, looking at the curlings of the Chagrian’s naked head-tentacles as they twisted across his chest, he found himself hoping that Obi-Wan hadn’t been lying to him about Sidious. He rather hoped that Mas Amedda might be a secret Sith, because something about the Speaker of the Senate was so revolting that Anakin could easily imagine just slicing his head in half …
It gradually dawned on Anakin that Palpatine was giving Mas Amedda the brush-off, and was sending the Redrobes with him.
Good. He wasn’t in the mood to play games. By themselves, they could talk straight with each other. A little straight talk might be just what he needed. A little straight talk might burn through the fog of half-truths and subtle confusions that the Jedi Council had poured into his head.
“So, Anakin,” Palpatine said as the others moved away, “did you see your friend off?”
Anakin nodded. “If I didn’t hate Grievous so much, I’d almost feel sorry for him.”
“Oh?” Palpatine appeared mildly interested. “Are Jedi allowed to hate?”
“Figure of speech,” Anakin said, waving this off. “It doesn’t matter how I feel about Grievous. Obi-Wan will soon have his head.”
“Provided, of course,” Palpatine murmured as he took Anakin’s arm to guide him toward the entryway, “that the Council didn’t make a mistake. I still believe Master Kenobi is not the Jedi for this job.”
Anakin shrugged irritably. Why did everyone keep bringing up things he didn’t want to talk about? “The Council was … very sure in its decision.”
“Certainty is a fine thing,” the Chancellor allowed. “Though it too often happens that those who are the most entirely certain are also the most entirely wrong. What will the Council do if Kenobi proves unable to apprehend Grievous without your help?”
“I’m sure I cannot say, sir. I imagine they will deal with that if and when it happens. The Jedi teach that anticipation is distraction.”
“I am no philosopher, Anakin; in my work, anticipation is often my sole hope of success. I must anticipate the actions of my adversaries—and even those of my allies. Even—” He opened a hand toward Anakin, smiling. “—my friends. It is the only way I can be prepared to take advantage of opportunity … and conversely, to avoid disaster.”
“But if a disaster comes about by the will of the Force—”
“I’m afraid I don’t believe in the will of the Force,” Palpatine said, his smile turning apologetic. “I believe it is our will that matters. I believe that everything good in our civilization has come about not by the blind action of some mystical field of energy, but by the focused will of people: lawmakers and warriors, inventors and engineers, struggling with every breath of their bodies to shape galactic culture. To improve the lives of all.”
They stood now before the vaulted door to Palpatine’s office. “Please come in, Anakin. Much as I enjoy a philosophical chat, that was not the reason I asked you to meet me. We have business to discuss, and I fear it may be very serious business indeed.”
Anakin followed him through the outer chambers to Palpatine’s intimate private office. He took up a respectful standing position opposite Palpatine’s desk, but the Chancellor waved him to a chair. “Please, Anakin, make yourself comfortable. Some of this may be difficult for you to hear.”
“Everything is, these days,” Anakin muttered as he took a seat.
Palpatine didn’t seem to hear. “It concerns Master Kenobi. My friends among the Senators have picked up some … disturbing rumors about him. Many in the Senate believe that Kenobi is not fit for this assignment.”
Anakin frowned. “Are you serious?”
<
br /> “I’m most serious, I’m afraid. It is a … complicated situation, Anakin. It seems there are some in the Senate who now regret having granted me emergency powers.”
“There have been dissenters and naysayers since before Geonosis, sir. Why should it be cause for concern now? And how does it affect Obi-Wan?”
“I’m getting to that.” Palpatine took a deep breath and swung his chair around so that he could gaze through his window of armored transparisteel onto the cityscape beyond. “The difference is that now, some of these Senators—actually a large number of them—seem to have given up on democracy. Unable to achieve their ends in the Senate, they are organizing into a cabal, preparing to remove me by … other means.”
“You mean treason?” Anakin had enough Jedi discipline to force away his memory of using that word with Obi-Wan.
“I’m afraid so. The rumor is that the ringleaders of this group may have fallen victim to the … persuasive powers … of the Jedi Council, and are on their way to becoming accomplices in the Council’s plot against the Republic.”
“Sir, I—” Anakin shook his head. “This just seems … ridiculous.”
“And it may be entirely false. Remember that these are only rumors. Entirely unconfirmed. Senate gossip is rarely accurate, but if this is true … we must be prepared, Anakin. I still have friends enough in the Senate to catch the scent of whatever this disloyal cabal is cooking up. And I have a very good idea of who the leaders are; in fact, my final meeting this afternoon is with a delegation representing the cabal. I would like you to be present for that as well.”
“Me?” Couldn’t everyone leave him alone for day? For even a few hours? “What for?”
“Your Jedi senses, Anakin. Your ability to read evil intent. I have no doubt these Senators will put some virtuous façade on their plotting; with your help, we will pierce that veil and discover the truth.”
Anakin sighed, rubbing his stinging eyes. How could he let Palaptine down? “I’m willing to try, sir.”
“We won’t try, Anakin. We will do. After all, they are only Senators. Most of them couldn’t hide what they’re thinking from a brain-damaged blindworm, let alone the most powerful Jedi in the galaxy.”