The Clone Wars: Wild Space

by Karen Miller

  And that was that.

  “Well?” said Organa, strolling into the living area. “Do I pack myself a spare shirt, or don’t I?” His tone was amused, his manner unconcerned—at least on the surface. Beneath it, however, trepidation and doubt churned.

  Obi-Wan turned away from the window and met Organa’s tired gaze without hesitation, knowing his own thoughts and feelings were nowhere to be seen.

  “Yes, Senator. You do.”

  As promised, Organa’s ship was entirely unremarkable. An early-model D-class Starfarer, designed for economic utility, not luxury, it was one of the Corellian Engineering Corporation’s most popular small civilian craft. Sturdy, reliable, shaped like an elongated lozenge, it plowed through the layers of Coruscant’s atmosphere without incident.

  They’d filed a false flight plan with Coruscant Space Central. Once they were clear of its autotracking sensors and well into free space, Organa programmed the nav computer with the coordinates provided by his contact, then turned in the pilot’s seat to look at Obi-Wan, neatly tucked in behind and to his right at the comsat console.

  “Before we jump to hyperspace I’d like to tell Breha—my wife—about the Bespin Dancer,” he said quietly. “Do you have a problem with that?”

  Obi-Wan finished coding the ship’s transponder beacon frequency for transmission to the Jedi Temple. “It might be better if you didn’t, Senator,” he replied, hitting the console’s transmit toggle. “It’s sensitive information, and there is the question of security.”

  “You think you need to lecture me about security?” Organa snapped. “Why do you think I didn’t call her from my residence?”

  Obi-Wan had wondered, in passing, why Organa would log his emergency absence from the Senate and leave a voice message for Padmé but not contact his wife. “Your domestic arrangements are none of my affair, Senator.”

  “Not domestic arrangements,” Organa said impatiently. “Security measures. Because of the terror attacks that nearly killed you we were forced to implement some extra precautions. Communications safety checks. Monitoring. They don’t apply to offworld transmissions not destined for Coruscant. I can talk to Breha from here without creating a problem for anyone.”

  Extra precautions? Monitoring? That sounded ominous. “I see.”

  Organa wasn’t an imperceptive man. He heard the note of reserve. Of doubt. “The measures are temporary,” he said. “They’ll last as long as the current security climate dictates, and no longer.”

  Obi-Wan nodded. “Of course. But I still don’t advise that you discuss the Bespin Dancer’s fate with your wife. I don’t know what Palpatine has authorized, in terms of information being made available to the public.”

  “Breha is not the public,” said Organa, his voice chilling. “She’s the head of the Alderaan government. And it’s her cousin who’s died. They grew up together. They’re more like brother and sister. I don’t want her finding out from a HoloNet news bulletin or in some impersonal Senate communiqué. I want her to hear it from me.”

  Obi-Wan looked at Organa, torn between bemusement and irritation. “Since you’re clearly determined to tell her, Senator, I don’t see why you’re bothering to ask my opinion.”

  “Neither do I,” said Organa, and linked through to his wife.

  Eyes closed, unhappily aware that when he’d told Yoda he was fine he’d perhaps exaggerated a trifle, Obi-Wan let Organa’s quiet sorrow wash through him. Denied himself any response to Breha Organa’s muted cry of grief. Allowed the physical pain in his weary, too recently insulted body to drown the emotional pain of remembering his own friends lost at Falleen. Physical pain was more acceptable than the suffering brought on by misplaced attachment.

  As Organa warned his wife he’d be out of contact for a little while, some unexpected offworld business, no need to be concerned, Obi-Wan slipped into a light trance that he hoped would in some small way replenish his diminishing reserves of strength. Reality faded. At some point he was dimly aware that they jumped to lightspeed.

  Organa startled him to wakefulness by tapping him on the shoulder.

  “Here,” said the Senator, and he held out a medi-cup. “Painkillers. You’re not looking too good. And then you should go lie down. Get some sleep.”

  Obi-Wan looked out of the cockpit viewport at the lazy swirlings of hyperspace, then at the drugs—and didn’t bother to hide his lack of enthusiasm. “No. Thank you.”

  “Take them,” Organa insisted. “You got blown up a few days ago, in case it slipped your mind.”

  “Oddly enough, I do remember the incident,” Obi-Wan said. “Senator, your concern is appreciated, but I am a Jedi. I do not require chemical assistance.”

  Organa frowned. “Okay. So is this how it’s going to be? Me making sensible suggestions, and you kicking against them just because you can? Master Kenobi, I’m bored already. Take the kriffing drugs.”

  It was childishly tempting to pluck the medi-cup from Organa’s fingers using the Force. But that would be beneath him. So he took the wretched painkillers like any non-Jedi and swallowed them dry.

  “There. See?” Organa said, ridiculously pleased. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He dropped back into the pilot’s seat. “You really should go lie down. I’ve seen white sheets with more color than you.”

  “I feel bound to point out that you are looking equally beleaguered, Senator. When was the last time you enjoyed adequate rest?”

  “I’m fine,” said Organa. “I took a stim.”

  “A stim?” Wonderful. “And when your metabolism crashes after its effects wear off, then what?”

  Organa shrugged. “Then you can sit in the pilot’s seat and I’ll put my head down. Assuming, of course, you know how to fly this thing?”

  Obi-Wan stood. “Now you’re just being deliberately provocative. Very well. I shall retire.”

  “Good idea,” said Organa. “Wish I’d thought of it. I calculate it’s a little over three hours’ flying time to reach the first coordinates. I’ll wake you when we drop out of lightspeed.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Senator,” Obi-Wan replied over his shoulder. “I’ll know when we shift back to normal space.”

  Organa muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath. He sounded irritated.

  Declining to acknowledge either the comment or the tone, Obi-Wan retreated to the compact—some might have said claustrophobically small—passenger compartment at the rear of the ship. Four economical sleep-bunks were built into the gently curving walls, each one concealed behind a self-sealing curtain. He selected the nearest cubicle, unstrapped his boots, and placed them neatly to one side. Then he unclipped his lightsaber and tossed it beside the single pillow, unbuckled his belt and put it with his boots, and rolled onto the mattress, which obligingly gave to his weight and immediately began warming to provide optimum comfort. One swift tug pulled the curtain closed. A single flick of his fingers activated its malleable nanopolymers.

  He closed his eyes, breathed out, and was immediately asleep.

  Drifting in the Force, he sees a great space battle. Three Jedi cruisers, valiant and overmatched, hold their own against the might of a merciless enemy. Hold the line to protect an innocent planet, its innocent citizens, from slavery and worse. To protect an ancient Republic from falling into chaos. The distant sun turns an asteroid belt to fire, splinters of a dead moon reflecting the light. A swarm of starfighters, angry metal hornets, burst from their safe nest into the rocky night. The enemy flogs them with fire, lashes them with laser whips. Brief life. Bright death. It looks hopeless. A rout. A pointless wasteful slaughter. Mired in horror, he says no and no. He cannot help them. He is only a witness. And then lumbering out of hiding come the ponderous AT-TEs, belching plasma. Thundering death. Like prehistoric predators they come, delivering harsh justice. The merciless foe founders, choking on defeat. A stricken enemy starship burns. It burns. One small ship escapes it. One hornet pursues. Closer. Closer. Coming closer. And then a plume of flam
e. A wave of disbelieving fear. The enemy, triumphant, smears against the stars. Escapes to kill another day. And the hornet dies in a shower of exploding shards…

  “Anakin!” said Obi-Wan, and sat up on his narrow bunk, his heart pounding erratically.

  On the other side of the sealed curtain, Organa cleared his throat. “Master Kenobi? Are you awake?”

  Obi-Wan unsealed the curtain. “What is it?”

  Organa’s eyes were red-rimmed from his ill-advised stim intake. “Your Padawan is asking to speak with you.”

  Not dead, then? Not lost? For a moment the relief felt like fresh pain. Then Obi-Wan nodded, groggy, his mind sluggish. A vicious headache pounded through his temples. He felt like a dishcloth, wrung dry by careless hands.

  Blinking, he cleared his blurred vision. “Not my Padawan. Not anymore.” He swung his feet to the deck and stood. “Please tell him I shall be there momentarily.”

  As Organa nodded and withdrew, Obi-Wan put his boots back on, and his belt, hooked his lightsaber where it belonged, then went forward to the cockpit where realspace glimmered through the viewport and a small hologram Anakin shimmered and shivered on the comsat console’s holoreceiver pad.

  “Master. Where are you? I transmitted through to the Temple but the signal was rerouted.”

  “I’m running an errand,” Obi-Wan replied. “So. You’re in one piece after all. How did you manage that?”

  “In one piece?” said Anakin, surprised. “You mean you know—”

  “Of course.” He managed a smile. Managed to sound calm. Even bored. “But why are you reporting to me and not the Council?”

  Anakin shrugged. Was it a trick of holography, or did he look… evasive? “Old habits die hard, I guess. What kind of errand?”

  “The irrelevant kind,” Obi-Wan said repressively. “It’s a shame about your starfighter, Anakin. It’s not like they grow on trees, you know.”

  Anakin sighed. “Sorry.”

  It wasn’t fair to scold. Not after his brilliant achievement. “Don’t apologize. You saved Bothawui. With boldness and daring, against significant odds. Congratulations, Anakin. Your resourcefulness always amazes me.”

  He expected a grin. Some kind of cocky, inappropriate rejoinder. Instead Anakin seemed suddenly downcast. “Thank you, Master.”

  A tickle of unease. What’s happened now? “You look troubled.”

  “I lost Artoo in the field.”

  Machines. Again. His ridiculous affection for nuts and bolts and circuitry. It’s time he grew out of this. “Artoo units are easily replaced.”

  Anakin wasn’t listening. “I could take a squad out there, track him down.”

  What? “Anakin, it’s only a droid,” he said, letting his voice snap a little. “You know attachment is not acceptable for a Jedi.”

  Anakin seemed to brace himself then. Seemed to lose his newly acquired confidence and polish. “It’s not just that. Um… how do I put this?”

  Oh no. Put what? Anakin, what have you done?

  Anakin’s expression was a muddle of defiance and contrition. “I didn’t wipe Artoo’s memory.”

  Obi-Wan stared as the words sank in. “What?” The enormity of the confession almost stole his breath. “He’s still programmed with our tactics and base locations?” No, no, no. This was impossible. Surely I trained him better than this! “If the Separatists get hold of him…” A dozen nightmare scenarios ignited his imagination. Scenarios that made the Falleen battle group’s loss seem insignificant. He didn’t even try to moderate his anger. “What possessed you not to erase that droid’s memory?”

  As Anakin stared at him, miserably silent, Ahsoka stepped into holotransmitter range. “Master Obi-Wan, sometimes Artoo having that extra information has come in handy.”

  So the Padawan was defending her Master, was she? She certainly doesn’t lack courage, I’ll give her that. But her defense, her justification, meant nothing. Changed nothing. He wanted to shout at Anakin. Reach through the holotransmitter, grab his shoulders, and shake him. Stupid, stupid, stupid…

  But that was physically impossible. And shouting was ill advised, with Organa listening to every word. With a wrenching effort he banished profitless temper.

  “Find that droid, Anakin,” he said flatly. “Our necks might very well depend on it.”

  Anakin brightened, doubtless surprised to escape so lightly. Doubtless pleased that he got to save the machine. “Right away, Master.”

  No wonder he hadn’t wanted to contact the Council. “I’ll inform Master Yoda you’re… engaged in mopping-up operations. But handle this quickly, Anakin. Time is not on our side.”

  Determined now, Anakin nodded. “I will. I promise. Thank you, Obi-Wan.”

  “You’re welcome,” he growled, and severed the hololink.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Trouble?” said Organa, shamelessly eavesdropping.

  “No,” he said. He coded an update for the Council for transmission as text, then sent it. With luck they’d take the report at face value and not attempt a holographic follow-up.

  He still couldn’t believe Anakin had been so reckless. Or was he just being willfully blind? Anakin had always pushed far beyond what sensible people considered the bounds of safety. Of sanity. It was a kind of untamed genius. Qui-Gon had seen it. Had gambled on it, all those years ago on Tatooine. Had chanced many lives on the outcome of a Podrace, risking their futures on the untrained, untested skills of a slave boy.

  And he’d been right.

  Ten years of rigorous training later, it seemed the genius still wasn’t completely tamed. Would never be tamed. Anakin continued to defy logic, ignore protocol, trample underfoot the rules he was meant to follow. Confident, always, that he would prevail. Confident his former Master would have his back.

  And I did. I still do. But one of these days he’s going to do something I can’t justify. And what will become of him then I don’t dare to contemplate.

  “So,” said Organa, intruding on his thoughts—or possibly rescuing him from them. “Everything’s all right?”

  “Of course,” he said, shifting in his seat to stare through the viewport at the scattering of distant stars beyond. “We’re at the first coordinates?”

  “Got here nearly an hour ago.”

  So much for knowing when they dropped out of lightspeed. “What’s our location?”

  “About three parsecs trailing of Kuat.”

  “So we’re still within the Core Worlds.”

  Organa shrugged. “Just.”

  “And we’ve yet to hear from your contact?”

  “Oh no,” said Organa, leaning back in his seat. “I received the next coordinates ten minutes after we got here. We’re just sitting around because I like the view. You hungry?”

  Obi-Wan looked at him. This is going to be a long, long journey. “Yes.”

  “We’ve got mealpacks in the galley.” Organa pulled a face. “Well. The closet that’s masquerading as a galley. Help yourself. Bring me one, too, could you?”

  “Certainly, Senator,” he said with exquisite courtesy. “It would be my pleasure.”

  He made his way to the ship’s compact kitchen, extracted two mealpacks from the well-stocked conservator, and took them back to the cockpit.

  “Thanks,” said Organa, taking his and twisting the heat seal. “That Padawan of yours seems quite the handful,” he added as he waited for the meal to warm up. “I’ll bet he keeps you on your toes.”

  Obi-Wan returned to his seat at the comsat console. “I told you,” he said, activating his own mealpack’s heating mechanism. “Anakin is no longer my Padawan.”

  “You remember to tell him that?” said Organa, amused. “Because he sure called you fast enough when things went wrong.”

  Obi-Wan stared at him. Whatever happened to reserved, formal Senator Organa? Throw in some profanity and this man could easily be mistaken for a Corellian bartender. Padmé might have warned me… “Anakin values my advice.”

  �
�Uh-huh,” said Organa. He peeled back his mealpack’s lid and immediately the cockpit filled with the rich scent of spicy-sauced Fondor fowl. “And you value his safety.”

  There it was again: that sly, prodding, poking undertone. “Meaning what, Senator?”

  Organa shrugged. “Meaning nothing. It’s just an observation.”

  He wanted to say, Keep your observations to yourself. But he didn’t. Replies merely encouraged more comments. Prolonged a conversation for which he had no desire. He turned his attention to his own meal, which had also reached its optimum temperature. Peeled back the lid, snapped free the attached spoon, and began to eat his fish hotpot.

  “Do you ever wish you weren’t a Jedi?” said Organa around a mouthful of food.

  So much for enjoying the peace and quiet. “No.”

  “Not ever? Not even once? You’ve never considered what it might be like to have a different life?”

  “No.”

  Frowning, Organa sat back, another spoonful of fowl paused partway to his mouth. “It’s never bothered you that you didn’t have a choice about being a Jedi? That you were given to the Temple as a baby?”

  Clearly, short of gagging the man—now, there was a tempting thought—conversation was going to take place. Obi-Wan repressed a sigh. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard such a sentiment expressed, and it wouldn’t be the last. It was only to be expected: outsiders did not understand.

  “You sound as though you’re regretting your defense of us against the Quarren’s allegations, Senator.”

  “Not at all,” said Organa. “Only a fool or a troublemaker believes the Jedi are baby thieves.”

  Obi-Wan considered him. “But?”

  “But…” Organa shrugged. “I have wondered, from time to time, about the way Jedi are raised. You must admit, Master Kenobi, it’s not exactly a… normal… life.”

  “That would depend on how you define normal, Senator.” He shook his head. “While it’s true that many children are given to the Temple as infants, no child is kept with us against his or her will. The Temple is not a prison. It is a home. A school. A world within a world. A safe haven for those born with peculiar sensitivity to the Force. Believe me, Senator, there is more suffering experienced by those Force-sensitives denied Jedi training than any Padawan you might meet.”