The Clone Wars: Wild Space

by Karen Miller

  “Understood, Master Kenobi. I will follow your lead.”

  Kenobi nodded, a little of the tension easing from his face. “Good.”

  And they entered the silent and dingily lit access corridor, treading lightly, breathing softly. Bail felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. There was a scarlet trail on the metal floor leading them to the corridor’s far end, where another door, closed this time, blocked their progress.

  Blood. He was walking through blood. As he followed Kenobi, who seemed oblivious to those red splatters and smears, Bail felt his fingers tighten on his blaster.

  I could be dead soon. This could be the last thing I ever do…

  “Control your thoughts, control your feelings, Senator,” said Kenobi, not turning, a bite in his voice. “Focus on the moment. Don’t let your mind stray.”

  Thus spake the Jedi Master to his sweating, heart-hammering, unlikely apprentice. Bail blinked hard, to clear his vision, and did as he was so curtly told.

  They reached the end of the corridor. The door sealing them off from the space station’s interior was solid metal, no handy porthole so they could see what they were getting into. But apparently Kenobi didn’t need a porthole; pressing his left palm flat to the door, he closed his eyes and… disappeared. Not physically, of course, but mentally. Just as it had in the starship’s cockpit, his face softened into the most extraordinary expression of serenity… with hints of an iron will beneath it.

  The access corridor continued eerily silent. The door had to be soundproofed. Anything could be happening beyond it. It was so hard to wait for Kenobi to speak, to share what he was learning through his mysterious Force. To be patient, like a Padawan, and do as he was told.

  Kenobi exhaled and returned to the moment. His fingers curled around the door’s handle. It was sticky with blood. Then he turned, all serenity burned from him now, nothing but implacable determination in his eyes.

  “We’ll be going in hot, Senator. Prepare yourself. Now.”

  Kenobi flung the door open, and they leapt into bloody mayhem and violent death.

  No time to think, to feel, to be afraid. Time only to react, as the experts had trained him. His wide gaze swept the room in front of him, seeking hostiles, seeking cover, seeking to tell friend from foe. Blaster bolts screamed through the chaos, seeming to fire from every direction. This was some kind of command center, consoles and desks and chairs and equipment, comsat-panels, a weapons station, four banks of monitors, racks of shelving, spare parts scattered across the floor. The air stank of energy weapon discharge, was hazed with acrid smoke from burning wiring and equipment. Here and there small, greedy flames flickered. He saw three attack droids protected by heavy shields, squat and deadly, relentless fire pouring from their extended weapon arms. Three male humans, apparently their allies, crouched behind cover and shot their ostentatious blasters without stopping. It was impossible to tell who they were, what societies had spawned them. Two more men slumped in death on the floor. No way of telling their origins, either, or whose side they’d been fighting on.

  As Bail threw himself obliquely toward a tipped-over desk, good enough cover, his blaster extended, finger taut on its trigger, shooting at the attack droids, he saw a woman returning fire from behind one of the four banks of monitors, darting out of cover to increase her chances of a strike. She had an athlete’s physique, clothed in a sleek dark gray bodysuit, blond hair pulled back tightly into a long braid. Everything about her suggested determination and courage.

  Her head turned and she saw him. A crooked smile, furious and relieved and feral, flashed across her strong, hawkish face, and she said his name, “Organa,” her voice lost in the cacophony. Then, staying behind her cover, she tugged a comlink from one pocket and waggled it at him. A signal. A gesture to tell him that she was indeed his mysterious benefactor. But before he could shout to her, ask for her name, the comlink was discarded and she was ducking behind the monitors as a fresh barrage of blasterfire tried to annihilate her.

  Eyes burning, ears ringing—the noise in the confined space was excruciating, shuddering through his bones—Bail choked on the stinking smoke and looked for Kenobi. Found him immediately, and nearly choked on a shout instead. You fool, you mad fool, what the vape are you doing?

  Kenobi had made of himself a deliberate target, was standing in the open between the door and the nearest wing of the command console array, willfully drawing fire from two of the droids and all three of the men. His lightsaber was a blue blur, whipping so fast, deflecting the barrage of blaster bolts into the floor, the ceiling, back toward the droids and the humans, his defensive offense seemingly effortless, his face in profile a mask of severe concentration. No fear. No doubt. Instead, a supreme confidence. Curving his lips, the merest hint of a smile.

  Dazed, Bail shook his head. He’s enjoying this. He’s enjoying this? He really is mad.

  But mad or not, Kenobi was also brilliant. The men had dived for deeper cover, and the attack droids were starting to give ground before him. The one on the left moved slowly, unevenly, its shield apparently failing. Kenobi’s lips parted in a fierce grin and he focused his deflections on the weaker machine. Risking himself further, but not seeming to notice, or care.

  Unsure if Kenobi needed help, incapable of doing nothing, Bail sighted his blaster on the same vulnerable droid and let loose. The droid’s shield flared scarlet, then collapsed in a dying screech of failed power. Half a heartbeat later the droid blew apart in a white-hot flurry of metal fragments and flame. He saw Kenobi leap vertically, his lightsaber still whirling, escaping the explosion even as the other droid increased the ferocity of its attack against him, and two of the men joined it in a fresh assault.

  “Organa, behind you!”

  It was the blond woman, his contact, who’d refused to tell him her name. Abandoning Kenobi to his amazing Jedi devices, Bail swung about—to see one more droid and another two men blasting their way into the space station’s control center from a door he hadn’t noticed in the most distant, partly obscured wall.

  Fierfek. Whoever these attackers were, they’d come as a small army.

  Instinct and training and a desperate determination to survive swallowed him alive then. Scrambling for fresh cover, skin-crawlingly aware that now he had armed enemies behind him and in front of him and maybe even on both sides as well, he remembered something one of his military trainers had told him: “We can and we do make these scenarios authentic, Senator, but nothing can take the place of a real live firefight.”

  Captain Varo had in no way been exaggerating.

  Panting, feeling battered and bruised and bizarrely disconnected as time sped up and slowed down, warping fantastically around him, Bail drained his blaster’s power pack against the enemy, replaced it with a new one from his holster belt, his fingers shaking but sure, and continued to defend his own life, and the life of his anonymous benefactor. He couldn’t see anyone else fighting with her, which meant either she was alone on this station… or any colleagues she’d had were dead.

  The air was so thick with smoke now it was hard to see, even harder to breathe. He could feel his lungs tightening, his stomach churning, taste something foul and bitter on his tongue, feel it coating the mucous membranes of his mouth. Probably it was toxic, probably every gasp of air, every swallow, was poisoning him. But he didn’t have time to worry about that. He couldn’t worry about the stinging burns on his hands and face, either, or the razor-thin cuts through his shirt and trousers and into his flesh, from the metal slivers peeled off the space station’s consoles and floor and walls by the endless barrage of blaster bolts. Couldn’t think about the three men who’d fallen to his weapon. To his honed expertise. Senator Organa was a crack shot indeed.

  Through the wreathing smoke he caught sight of Kenobi, a blur of motion and a dazzle of lightsaber, as he leapt and spun around the cramped, crowded command center. So many hazards in this place, so many chances to miscalculate… and die. But the Jedi didn’t put a
foot wrong. If something was in his way he Force-pushed it clear or leapt it in a blur of motion, unnervingly aware of every potential obstacle. He’d taken out two more of the attack droids. At least one man. How many did that leave? He didn’t know, couldn’t count, he was punch-drunk from adrenaline, numbed by all the noise. His head was ringing. How long had they been here? It felt like days. Like moments. Like all his life had been lived in war.

  He aimed his blaster at another of those vaping attack droids, pulled its trigger—and the weapon droned, its charge empty. Vape it, vape it. The droid’s shield was damaged, sputtering as it lurched toward him, toward the blond woman, and he only had one power pack left. She was still firing, she still had a working weapon. Exhausted, half blinded by sweat and by smoke, he fumbled out the dead power pack, struggled to shove the new one in. The vaping thing jammed, it jammed, this wasn’t happening, no no no no no. Come on, come on—

  He rammed the pack home, felt the charge run through his blaster, turned and raised it to fire… as one of the remaining attack droids unleashed a fresh volley of fury. He saw the edge of a console blow apart. Heard a terrible scream. Saw Kenobi flip up and over the right-handed console array, deflecting the droid’s blaster bolts back on itself and toward an enemy human beside it, keeping the man pinned down and harmless. Smart move. And then came a high-pitched scream as the last deflected energy bolt found its target. Even better. Best news of all, the functioning attack droid stopped firing. At least one of the deflected blaster bolts had scored a hit.

  Landing lightly behind the droid with the weakened shield, Kenobi speared his lightsaber through its defenses, piercing its central control node. Killing it… if a machine could be killed.

  An odd silence fell then, broken only by the sound of a woman in agony, made all the more terrible by her struggle to stay silent.

  Kenobi, looking tired now—and who would have thought that was possible?—spun around again, his lightsaber raised. “It’s over,” he said, staring through the drifting smoke. “Whoever you are. You’re the last man standing, and you can’t defeat me. Nor can that attack droid beside you. We both know it’s done for. Surrender your weapons and I promise you won’t be harmed. You don’t have to die here. There’s been enough death.”

  The last man standing said nothing. Bail lifted his head cautiously and caught a glimpse of their surviving enemy, on the far side of the charred and ruined comm console. Wounded and furious, he clutched his burned shoulder with a bloody hand. For himself, he was desperate to get to his injured contact but didn’t dare move. Wounded or not, the enemy was still armed and likely to shoot.

  “Don’t be a fool, man,” said Kenobi. In his voice, a hairline fracture of stress. He was brilliant, but he was human, and he’d borne the brunt of this battle. “Stand down.”

  Bail saw the man shift. Saw his blaster slowly lower. Heard him say, “All right. All right. I surr—”

  The droid beside him opened fire—clearly not as done for as they’d hoped. Three quick bursts and the surrendering man was dead. And then, as Obi-Wan leapt for it, the droid exploded in a plume of flame. His leap carried him over the burning shrapnel, left him singed and smoking and for the first time thrown off-balance. He landed awkwardly, lightsaber disengaging as he stumbled against a partly destroyed bank of monitors.

  Bail lurched to his feet, coughing. “Master Kenobi, are you all right?”

  The Jedi straightened and swung around. His face was streaked with sweat and smoke. “Yes. Are you unharmed?”

  He nodded, even though a hundred small and not-so-small pains were clamoring for his undivided attention. “I’m fine. But my contact—”

  “Do what you can for her,” said Kenobi, reigniting his lightsaber. “While I make sure there are no more surprises waiting for us elsewhere on this station.”

  As Kenobi left the station’s command center, Bail shoved his way through smoldering debris to the woman he’d come so far to meet. She lay on her back, her cut face slowly bleeding, her shallow breathing labored, an ominous glaze creeping over her eyes. Her relief when she saw him was palpable, and closed his throat. She was worried about him? Oh mercy.

  “Organa,” she whispered, her voice bubbling in her throat. It was the sound of drowning, when all around was dry land. Her dark gray bodysuit was shredded and soaked in blood, dreadful wounds in her chest, her belly, her right arm stripped of flesh almost to the bone.

  Kneeling, putting his blaster to one side, he took her unhurt hand in his and held her, lightly. “Yes. Will you tell me your name now?”

  “Alinta,” she said, then closed her teeth on her lower lip as a spasm of pain racked her head-to-toe.

  “What happened here, Alinta?” he said, leaning a little closer. “Who attacked you? And why? Is it to do with the Sith?”

  “No,” she said, the word almost a groan. “Another… mission. A double cross. Kalarba pirates. They came in… so fast. Jamming equipment, took us… by surprise. No time… to warn you.” Tears filled her glazed eyes. “Sorry. So sorry.”

  He pressed her hand to his lips. “Don’t say that, Alinta. Don’t you dare. After all that I owe you? After everything you’ve done for Alderaan? For the Republic?”

  She rolled her head on the scarred metal floor beneath her. “Not enough,” she said, her voice fading. “So much… still to do. And now… and now…”

  “Alinta,” he said, and tightened his fingers around hers. “Don’t you think that way. You have to hold on.”

  Her lips twisted in a grimacing smile. “I can’t, Organa. I’m dying.”

  “No,” he said, though in his heart he knew denial was futile. “Please. Hold on a little longer, try to, you can’t give up, you can’t—” A sound behind them had him turning. It was Kenobi, his lightsaber disengaged and clipped again to his belt. “Well?”

  “No other survivors,” Kenobi said quietly as he dropped to one knee.

  Alinta shifted, a small sound of distress escaping her lips. “None? They’re all dead? My people?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Kenobi said, his voice gentle. “I’m very sorry.”

  Bail tightened his hold on her hand, feeling the tremors of grief now as well as pain. “Master Kenobi, this is Alinta,” he said, his voice not quite steady. “A friend of the Republic. My friend. A dear friend. Can you help her?”

  Kenobi touched the back of his hand to Alinta’s forehead. His gaze turned inward for a moment, then he shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “Whatever talent I have for healing is insufficient to tend her injuries.”

  “You’re not even going to try?” His eyes were stinging… and not just from the smoke. “How can you not try, how can you just—”

  “Organa,” Alinta whispered. “It’s all right.” Her unfocused gaze shifted to Kenobi. “Left bodysuit pocket. Data crystal. Nav comp coordinates for Zigoola.”

  Kenobi retrieved the data crystal and slipped it into an inside pocket of his tunic. “Thank you, Alinta. What can you tell me about the planet?”

  Bail stared at him. What? What was wrong with the man? The woman was dying, and he was interrogating her? He felt a rush of anger, so hot that it cleansed his body of its insignificant discomforts. “Master Kenobi—”

  The Jedi seared him with a look. “There are questions I must ask, Senator. If Zigoola is truly a Sith planet, I need all the information I can get. We can’t afford to fly in blind.”

  “Wild Space,” said Alinta, her voice almost too faint to hear. Underneath it, that awful bubbling. “Zigoola… in Wild Space.”

  “What else?” said Kenobi, and pressed his hand to her shoulder. Dangerously, wickedly, close to shaking her. “Alinta—what else? How do you know it’s a Sith planet? How do you know they’re planning to attack the Jedi? What sort of attack are they planning? What should I look for when I get there?” He leaned closer again. “Alinta, are the Sith on Zigoola?”

  Sickened, Bail watched Alinta raise her heavy eyelids. “No. No Sith,” she said, her voice
ghostly. “A temple. Artifacts. Plans. Location… on data crystal.”

  “Plans? Sith plans?” Kenobi demanded. “Do you mean their plans to attack the Jedi?”

  Alinta’s face was drained of all its color now. Beneath the drying blood, her lips were turned blue. “Yes.”

  Kenobi pressed the back of his hand against his mouth, fingers clenched, brows pulled low and tight. “And how do you know all this? Have you been there, to this Zigoola? Have you seen these things with your own eyes, Alinta?”

  “Organa… Bail…” Alinta’s pallid skin looked waxen. In the strangest way, as death crept closer, she somehow looked younger. “I’ve… never lied… to you. Trust me. Please.”

  “I do, Alinta,” he said, chafing her cold hand. “I trust you. It’s all right.”

  She looked up at him, and as he stared desperately into her face he saw the lines of pain slowly smooth from around her eyes and mouth. “Space station,” she breathed. “Self-destruct. Protect… secrets. Promise?”

  Again, he pressed her hands to his lips. “Yes. How?”

  Her eyelids drifted closed. “Right… pocket. Data crystal. Center comm console. Insert—and run.”

  “I will,” he said. “I’ll do it. Alinta. Alinta?”

  But Alinta was gone.

  Not looking at Kenobi, not trusting what he might say or do, he retrieved the data crystal from her bodysuit’s other pocket, pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, and picked his way over to the battered, blaster-scarred center comm console.

  “Senator, I’m not sure you should—”

  “I didn’t ask for your opinion, Master Kenobi,” he said coldly. “I just made a promise to a dying woman, and I intend to keep it.”

  “By all means,” said Kenobi, behind him. “But first we should see if it’s possible to contact the Jedi Temple from here.”

  Fierfek. He was right. So they checked all the consoles until they found the comsat array… which was now a melted slag of wiring and metal, victim of multiple direct blaster hits.