The Clone Wars: Wild Space

by Karen Miller

  “So there is suffering?” said Organa, discarding his emptied mealpack. “You don’t deny it?”

  “Nobody’s life is devoid of suffering, Senator.”

  “That’s not what I mean, and you know it.” Organa’s gaze narrowed. “Come on, Master Jedi. Don’t dance with me.”

  “If you are asking me whether it is sometimes difficult being a Jedi, the answer is yes,” he replied calmly. “Is it your assertion that being a Senator is a bed of haffa-blossoms?”

  Organa snorted. “One full of thorns, maybe. But at least I’m not forbidden—what did you call it? Attachment. At least I don’t have to pretend I don’t care about things. About people.”

  “There are many different ways of caring, Senator. Surely you’re not so arrogant as to claim your way is superior to everyone else’s?”

  “Huh,” said Organa, amused and irritated in equal measure. “You know, Master Kenobi, for a Jedi you’re a pretty good debater. You should think about a career in the Senate yourself.”

  He shuddered. “Perish the thought.”

  “You really don’t like us, do you?” said Organa, half smiling. Intrigued, and a little piqued. “Politicians, I mean. As a breed. What did we ever do to you, that you’d be so—”

  “What?” said Obi-Wan, putting aside his meal.

  Organa slid his hand inside his plain blue tunic and pulled out a small, innocuous-looking comlink. “Contact,” he said quietly. “Excuse me.”

  He left the cockpit, heading for the passenger compartment. Obi-Wan watched the separating curtain pull shut, shrugged, and returned to his meal. Three more mouthfuls finished it, so he collected Organa’s empty container, slotted it into his own, then used the Force to crush both into a small, neat cube ready for disposal in the waste chute.

  Organa returned a few minutes later. Slid into the pilot’s seat and began programming new coordinates into the nav comp.

  “Where to now?” he asked. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “Don’t know yet,” said Organa, punching the CALCULATE key. The nav comp hummed, then flashed a green light. “Ah. Atzerri.” He flicked a sideways glance. “More or less. Assuming nothing goes wrong, nearly seventeen hours’ flight time.”

  So. With each jump they were getting closer to the Inner Rim. Did that mean Zigoola—if indeed the planet existed—lay somewhere in the less rigorously charted regions? Was it located in the Outer Rim?… or even beyond? It seemed a reasonable hypothesis. Surely not even the Sith could hide a whole planet if it lay close to the heart of the Republic. Or close, at least, to any systems already familiar and regularly visited.

  There is no point speculating. I’ll find out soon enough if we are destined for the Outer Rim… or farther.

  “Something wrong?” Organa said, frowning at him.

  “Not at all. Tell me, Senator, how is it your contact knows when it’s time to transmit the next coordinates?”

  “They have my private link ID,” said Organa. “The message I left on it, saying I was taking care of some family business, was our prearranged starter’s flag. After that, I suppose it’s a simple case of chrono-watching and mathematics.”

  “I see. And—given Coruscant’s recently adopted security measures—how is it you’ve managed to keep the communications from your contact secret? I am assuming that all incoming transmissions are monitored, as well as outgoing?”

  Organa looked down. For the briefest moment his expression twisted with discomfort. Uncertainty. Then he sighed, his olive skin tinting from a rush of blood. “You need me to spell it out for you, Master Kenobi?”

  Not even the first word. “You want to know why I distrust politicians, Senator? This is why. You have a disconcerting habit of making up rules that don’t then apply to you. It’s a common hobby for those in power, I’ve found.”

  “I didn’t hear you complain when I filed that bogus flight plan,” Organa retorted, stung to self-defense.

  “Senator, you know perfectly well that such an action falls under the purview of the Clandestine Operative Act. As a Jedi I have often filed a false flight plan. You are being—disingenuous. I doubt the same legislation covers your activities.”

  “No. It doesn’t,” Organa said, his voice low. “And if you think I’m happy about it, you’re wrong. But I can live with it. Because I know I’m not acting against the Republic’s interests. I’m acting in its interests. Right now I’m probably risking my life for its interests. So I’d be careful, if I were you, about accusing me of disloyalty.”

  “I would never do that, Senator. I don’t question your motives, or your commitment to the Republic. But it’s so easy to justify and rationalize one’s actions. To find an excuse for doing what we want to do even though we know it’s wrong. Yes, your motives are pure. But will that be true of the next politician who ignores the rule of law? Who says, Trust me. What I’m doing is illegal but it’s for such a good reason.”

  Organa shook his head. “I had no idea the Jedi were so cynical.”

  “Not cynical,” Obi-Wan said gently. “Realistic. We do get to see rather a lot of the galaxy, Senator. And we’re called in so often to clean up the messes politicians have made.”

  “Politicians don’t just make messes, Master Kenobi,” said Organa, his eyes troubled. “Good things are achieved, too. I think the scales are more evenly balanced than you’ll admit.”

  “Perhaps. It’s an interesting hypothesis, at any rate. But rather than debate it now, I suggest we continue our mission. I fear our window of opportunity might be closing as we speak.”

  “True,” said Organa, but he didn’t initiate the jump to lightspeed. Instead he leaned forward, his expression taking on an intent, hunting-bird aspect. “But I want to get one thing straight before we make another jump. You Jedi see things, right? Feel things? Other places, other times. I mean, you knew something had happened to your Padawan. You woke up, and you knew.”

  “I fail to see what—”

  “Don’t interrupt me, and I’ll explain,” said Organa. “I know you think you’re humoring me right now. Letting me tag along with you like a—a pesky kid. And maybe you think I need protecting like a kid. But I don’t. In fact, I won’t stand for it. So if your Jedi powers show you something about us—about this mission—you tell me. If we’re flying into danger, you tell me. You don’t keep it to yourself because you think I’m a soft politician who can’t deal with harsh realities.”

  This man. He thought he knew about the Jedi, but he was ignorant. He knew nothing. “Do you think I would lie to you, Senator?”

  “In a heartbeat,” Organa said promptly. “If you thought it was for my own good. But my own good is what I determine it to be. Not you. So I want your word that what you know, you tell me. The moment you know it. Or I swear I will turn this ship around right now and take you back to Coruscant.”

  “And continue on your own?”

  “Yes.”

  “That would be a grave mistake, Senator.”

  Organa shrugged, smiling thinly. “Maybe. But I’ll make it without thinking twice. If you Jedi really can read people, you know I mean it.”

  Oh yes. He meant it. “Very well, Senator. You have my word.” He offered a thin smile of his own. “And just for the record: beyond a general, and not unreasonable, unease, I do not feel we are in danger.”

  “Now,” said Organa. “But how long will that be true?”

  “I cannot say, Senator.”

  “Because the dark side clouds everything?”

  And he hadn’t been expecting that.

  “It’s something Padmé said once,” Organa explained. “I’ve never forgotten it.”

  And how would she know? Was that Anakin, speaking out of turn? Wonderful. The last thing he needed was Organa worrying about the dark side, especially when there was nothing he could do about it. “It was a figure of speech, Senator. The Jedi are hardly crippled. If there is danger, I will sense it. And I will tell you.”

  “Okay,” said Organ
a, nodding. “I can live with that.” His lips quirking in a brief smile, he threw the ship into hyperspace. “But you know,” he added, standing, “you really need a better reason for disliking me than the fact that I’m a politician. Disliking me just for that makes you shallow. And you’re a lot of things, Master Kenobi, but shallow isn’t one of them. Maybe you can think up a few more reasons while I’m getting some sleep.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “I’ll do my best, Senator.”

  “I’ll bet you will,” Organa said, with another brief, twisted smile. Then he left the cockpit, whistling a jaunty tune under his breath.

  Obi-Wan stared after him. This is a test. The Force is testing me. Twelve years of Qui-Gon, ten years of Anakin, and now I get him.

  Exhaling sharply, banishing dismay, he slid into the pilot’s seat, checked the flight console to make certain every system was running smoothly, then folded himself deep within the Force to rest.

  And hopefully pierce the dark side’s cloying veil, to search for dangers as yet unannounced.

  Ten hours later Organa returned to the cockpit, bringing a datapad and a preoccupied expression with him. Relieved that the man appeared to have lost interest in conversation, at least for the moment, Obi-Wan left him to his work and withdrew to the passenger compartment. Not needing more sleep, he gave himself over to a deeper Force meditation than he’d been willing to undertake while on duty at the helm.

  Still no hint of danger could he sense. Zigoola… the Sith… remained elusive. He searched for Anakin, but beyond a vague impression of urgency could not bring him into focus. And really, there was no point in trying. Anakin had his mission…

  … and I have mine.

  As Qui-Gon had told him, so many times, he had to keep his concentration on the here and now.

  After an hour he stirred and checked the cabin’s chrono. Six more hours before they reached their destination. He wasn’t a Senator with committee work to ponder, new rules to dream up that he could ignore or circumvent when it suited him, but still—a Jedi did not lack for tasks. The passenger compartment was too small for lightsaber drills, but there was enough room—just—for him to work through his alchaka meditations. Stripped down to his leggings, barefoot, he drove himself through the meticulous repetitions, striving for perfection of form and execution. Failing, as always, but never forgetting that the striving was all.

  Time slid by, sleek as cool water. Strengthened by the Force, buoyed by its constant presence, he lost himself in familiar motion. Invigorated himself with physical toil.

  After two hours he felt his edge begin to dull. Felt the loss of concentration that heralded the end of effectiveness. Slick with sweat, breathing hard, he eased himself out of the Force and back to the paucity of an exterior life.

  As always, it took him a little time to reacquaint himself with mundane reality, where the light seemed thinner, colors dimmer, scents and sounds less vivid. Less true. As always he felt a dreadful tug of loss, leaving behind the Force-fed richness of his inner life.

  He availed himself of the ship’s extremely small refresher then dressed again, noting that his tunic and leggings were looking a little the worse for wear. There was a compact laundry unit, however, which was fortunate since he hadn’t brought a change of clothing with him. Presentable again, he went forward to the cockpit, where Organa was scowling at his datapad.

  “So here’s the thing,” said the Senator, not looking around. “The argument goes—according to Ralltiir, anyway—that because they’re on the very edge of what’s designated as the Core Worlds region they shouldn’t be expected to carry the same burden of Core Worlds Consortium levies because they are, in effect, the first line of defense for planets like Alderaan and Coruscant, which are closer to the center. To be precise, they think Alderaan and Coruscant—oh, and Chandrila—should subsidize their Munitions Levy.” Now Organa spun his chair around, datapad in one hand. “What do you think?”

  Obi-Wan smiled. “I think I’m glad it’s not my problem.”

  “And I think I’m starting to think you’ve got the right idea about politicians,” Organa muttered, rubbing his eyes. “Shoot me now.”

  “Before or after you’ve eaten?” he replied. “I was about to heat another mealpack. Can I do the same for you?”

  “Thanks, but I ate earlier.” Organa tapped a key on the datapad and tossed it onto the console. “I’ll have a drink though. A Blackmoon ale, in a glass. No ice. Just a twist of sarsata peel. You’ll find that in the conservator,” he added helpfully. “In the jar beside the pickled rata-bulbs.”

  Treating me like a waiter, Senator? Ah well. It was his own fault for offering. Organa’s eyes were glinting. He was waiting—hoping—for an offended refusal. Not a chance, Bail Organa. As you say, I’m not that stupid. He offered the man an ironical bow. “Certainly, sir.”

  Organa laughed, suspecting mockery. “Okay.”

  He chose a mealpack without bothering to read its contents. Poured Organa’s ale into a glass and added a twist of blue sarsata peel. The astringent fumes made his eyes water. Then he returned to the cockpit.

  “Sir,” he said, handing the glass to the Senator with another bow.

  Organa considered him, uncertain. “I was only joking, you know. I didn’t actually intend for you to—”

  “I know,” he said, resuming his seat at the comsat console. “But I’m sure you’d do the same for me.”

  Organa swallowed a generous mouthful of the ale. “What was that you were doing before?”

  “Before?”

  “Yeah.” Organa jerked his chin. “In the passenger compartment. I saw you when I was getting dinner. Lunch. Breakfast. Food, anyway. I lose track of which meal is which. What was it, some kind of Jedi training program?”

  The mealpack finished heating, but he ignored it, disconcerted. Organa had watched him? But the alchaka meditations were deeply personal. “Some kind. Yes.”

  “It looked like hard work,” Organa said, swallowing more ale. “But you were breezing through it. And I couldn’t help but notice there’s hardly a mark on you. A man gets himself blown up, you’d think he’d have a few scars.”

  Obi-Wan opened his mealpack to find some kind of curd-and-vegetable stew. It smelled pleasant enough, but his appetite was abruptly dulled. “Jedi healing is most effective.”

  “Yeah. So I saw. One scar only, on your arm.”

  There was an undercurrent of disapproval in his tone. Obi-Wan looked up, frustrated. “From a lightsaber. If I’d realized it would distress you, Senator, I’d have worn my tunic during my private meditation.”

  “I’m not distressed. Just curious.”

  He put down his mealpack. “You are not curious, you’re critical. Are you suggesting I should have refused healing? Had I done so, I most certainly would have died.”

  “No,” said Organa. “No, of course I’m not suggesting that.”

  “Then what? Senator, if you have an observation to make about the Jedi, you should feel free to make it. We are not some secret society, immune from public commentary.”

  Organa swallowed the rest of his ale in one gulp. “No. But you are pretty mysterious.”

  “Mysterious? I hardly think so.”

  “Ha,” said Organa. “Now who’s being disingenuous? Sure, you’ve got a public face. Guardians of the peace. Upholders of the law. Protectors of the weak and helpless. Wherever there’s trouble, there’s a Jedi trying to put out the fire. Everyone knows that. But you’re a bit spooky, too. You’ve got this mystique. This—this aura. You’re not like the rest of us, Master Kenobi. You’re beings apart, with powers and abilities ordinary folk can’t understand. You get blown up and hey presto! You’re healed. Not a mark to show for it. Not a limp. Not anything. When normal people get hurt, there’s a consequence. But not for you Jedi.”

  Obi-Wan felt his jaw clench. “Really? You should advance that theory to my former Padawan sometime, Senator. He’d be most interested to hear it. And when you’ve done pontificating,
he can show you his prosthetic arm.”

  Organa blinked. Then he dropped his gaze to the empty glass he nursed in both hands, and stared at the bedraggled blue twist of sarsata peel at its bottom.

  “All I meant,” he said at last, his voice tight, “is that it’s a shame the other people hurt in the terrorist attacks can’t experience the same benefits of Jedi healing that you did.” He looked up, then, and his eyes were haunted. “I saw some of them, you know. After. And even with intensive bacta treatment there are now children who’ll have to go through life hideously maimed and disfigured. It’s… sad. It’s cruel. That’s all I meant.”

  The man’s compassion was laudable, but his inferences were insulting. “I think what you meant, Senator, is that it’s somehow unfair that I’m not sharing their fate,” Obi-Wan snapped. And then he caught hold of his temper. Crushed it before he said something truly unfortunate. “It’s not because we don’t care,” he continued, far more moderately. “We do, I assure you. However, healing is one of our rarest gifts. We help as many as we can, wherever we can, and keenly regret that we cannot help more. But are you saying that because we can’t help everyone, we shouldn’t help anyone?”

  “No. I’m sorry,” said Organa, shaking his head. “This isn’t coming out right. I really am on your side, you know. I admire the Jedi enormously. I am in awe of what you do. But in case you hadn’t noticed it, this war has thrust you onto center stage. You’re in the news every day. Everything you do is being examined. Magnified. And when the novelty’s worn off, it’s going to be second-guessed, and maybe even held up for censure. Especially if the war drags on, or doesn’t go our way. Because you have been placed on a pedestal as tall as any Coruscant skyscraper.”

  “That was never our intention, Senator, I assure you.”

  “I know,” said Organa. “But you’re up there regardless. You’re the Jedi, Master Kenobi. Larger than life and twice as hard to kill. Still, the more systems the Separatists entice or strong-arm to their side, the more suffering and fear the Republic experiences, the closer the Separatists creep to the Core, and the longer it takes the Jedi to end this conflict—the harder your pedestal is going to rock. Especially if it’s perceived that you’re not suffering like everyone else.”