The Clone Wars: Wild Space

by Karen Miller

  Bail glanced at Kenobi. “That would be no, then.” Turning back to the center console, which luckily hadn’t sustained fatal damage, he located its data crystal slot and slid the self-destruct key halfway in. “On three, and then we run. One—two—three.”

  He thrust the crystal home then waited, just to make sure the console accepted the instruction to destroy Alinta’s station. The comm console lit up, the data crystal pulsed red, and urgent fingers closed hard around his arm.

  “Run or die, Senator,” said Kenobi, his eyes glinting. “It’s your choice—but choose now.”

  He ran.

  With his starship disengaged from the docking ring and standing off at a safe distance, he sat in the pilot’s seat and watched Alinta’s space station blow itself apart, taking the pirate’s vessel with it. There was something unbearably melancholy about the silent explosions, so brief and bright against the midnight velvet of space. A funeral pyre should last longer, so the dead could be honored properly.

  “I am sorry,” said Kenobi, behind him. “But she was hurt beyond saving.”

  He nodded. “I know.”

  “And I’m sorry I had to—”

  “You didn’t have to,” he said flatly. “You chose to. I don’t wish to discuss it.”

  Silence. Then Kenobi sighed. “Was that the first time you ever fought for your life, Senator? The first time you killed?”

  It was a moment before he could trust himself to answer. “Yes.”

  “I see.”

  And Kenobi probably did. He’d had a first time, too, doubtless years before today. But he didn’t want to discuss that, either. The only person he wanted to bare his soul to about what he’d done—what he’d had to do—on Alinta’s space station was Breha. And he would, eventually. For now, he wasn’t even going to think about it. What was the point? The past could not be unwritten.

  “There is one thing we must discuss, Senator,” Kenobi said, so politely. “And that is whether or not we will proceed to Zigoola.”

  He swung the pilot’s chair around. “Why wouldn’t we? Alinta’s death changes nothing, Master Kenobi. We have the information she procured for us. And while she didn’t die for it, she did die because of her work. Work from which I have derived great benefit. I want to see this through. Are you saying you don’t?”

  Kenobi shook his head. Gone was the smiling warrior who’d stood his ground against terrifying attack droids and pirate assassins. Gone, too, the ruthless interrogator who had closed his heart to the suffering of a dying woman. This man looked almost ordinary… and weary to the bone.

  “You disapprove of the way I spoke to Alinta,” he said, hands clasped neatly before him. “I accept that, Senator. But disapproving or not, you must see how many unanswered questions her death leaves in its wake. All we have to guide us is a set of nav comp coordinates and her dying assertion that this Sith threat is genuine. I find that… problematic. Zigoola could still be a trap. And leading you into a trap is not part of my mandate.”

  Bail shook his head, feeling as weary as Kenobi looked. “And so we’ve come full circle, have we? Arguing again about whether my contact can be trusted? Whether I can be trusted not to get you or myself killed? Master Kenobi, I thought I’d at least proven myself competent on that score.” Even though, distracted, he’d left his blaster behind, to be blown into random, scattered atoms.

  Not my finest moment. I guess it’s a case of live and learn.

  “Senator, you acquitted yourself well,” Kenobi said, with care. “But you could just as easily have been killed.”

  “So could you. So could any of us in this time of war.” He leaned back in the pilot’s seat, frowning. “Shall I make this easy for you, Master Kenobi? Shall I, in my capacity as a Senator of the Galactic Republic, order you to accompany me to Zigoola?”

  Kenobi’s lips tightened, and he folded his arms. “I wouldn’t advise it.”

  They stared at each other, both hurting and tired. And then Bail sighed. “We have to go, Master Kenobi. You know we do. Neither of us will sleep another night through if we don’t uncover the truth about the Sith.”

  After a long silence, Kenobi nodded. So reluctant. “Very well, Senator. We’ll go.”

  “Good,” he said. “Then give me that data crystal, and let us be on our way.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Wild space.

  The fanciful expression alone was enough to give a man pause. Redolent of mystery, of adventure, the great untamed unknown, it was a term to ignite the dullest imagination. It meant space beyond the limits of the safe, the predictable. Where dangers never before glimpsed by human eyes lurked, stalking the foolish and unwary. The great emptiness. The horror of nothing. Where a Sith planet named Zigoola had hidden for centuries.

  As he stared through the viewport at the otherness of hyperspace, Bail found himself wondering, despite his bold protestations of commitment to the mission: Am I doing the right thing? Because if this crazy enterprise failed—if he died—he’d be leaving one kriffing mess for Breha to clean up.

  But his wife would say he had no choice. That helping the Jedi was worth every risk.

  Even when the Jedi are convinced they don’t need help?

  Yes, she’d say. Because a friend doesn’t let another friend push him away.

  Which sounded fine in theory. The only fly in Breha’s ointment was the fact that he and Obi-Wan Kenobi weren’t friends—a state of affairs that didn’t seem likely to change anytime soon. Which, to his surprise, he found himself regretting. Because for all his irritating Jedi hauteur and that startling streak of ruthlessness, so unexpected and confronting, Kenobi was an admirable man. And remarkably good company, too, when he wasn’t laying down the law… or displaying his startling array of Jedi skills. When he was relaxed, not being a Jedi, Kenobi was intelligent, insightful, and possessed of a sneakily dry wit.

  And best of all, I don’t have a single thing he wants. How often do I meet someone who wants nothing from me?

  Rarely. Senator Organa’s days were filled with people who cared only for his position, his influence. They flattered, they bowed, they scraped, they begged. The ones who didn’t know him well or hadn’t paid sufficient attention to the news even tried to bribe—much to their eventual regret. But Kenobi was the opposite. The man was indifferent to family background, political power, social influence.

  It was proving to be a… salutary… experience.

  As the scion of an ancient, noble House, privilege had been his from the moment he drew breath. And though he’d never been spoiled, he wasn’t so self-deluded he couldn’t recognize his advantages. Magnificent home. Doting parents. Slavishly devoted personal attendants. Human, not droid. Yes, he’d been schooled from the cradle that such advantages required service in return, but that didn’t change the fact he’d never gone hungry a day in his life. He was a Prince. The Prince of Alderaan. A blue-blooded member of that most exclusive club: the ruling class.

  If he hadn’t been handsome, he never would have known it. Everyone would have told him he was.

  Everyone except for Obi-Wan Kenobi. I doubt he’s told a single flattering lie his whole life.

  All right, Kenobi’s unflattering opinion of politicians was irritating. But given the acerbic observations about other Senators that he often exchanged with Padmé, he couldn’t say the man was entirely wrong.

  He’s just wrong about me.

  The console chrono ticked over, its display bright in the soft lighting. Nine hours completed of an eleven-hour trip. Two more hours before they reached Zigoola. Before he could prove to Kenobi once and for all that Alinta had been everything she’d claimed. Before he could put her final offering of intelligence to good use, so she might truly rest in peace.

  I promise you, Alinta. We will defeat the Sith. That will be your greatest legacy.

  In the passenger compartment behind him, Obi-Wan Kenobi screamed.

  Shocked, Bail practically fell out of the pilot’s seat and stumbled to the re
ar of the ship. Sealed into his bunk space Kenobi screamed again, flailing, his fists and feet thudding against the bunk’s rigid curtain.

  Bail unsealed it using his pilot master’s override. Kenobi half fell, half thrashed himself off the bunk and landed face-first on the deck. Then he flipped himself over and began clawing at his face, his chest, his legs.

  “Get them off me!” he choked out. “Get them off me!”

  Bail dropped to his knees, not quite certain what to do. After the space station, seeing what Kenobi was capable of, he was reluctant to lay so much as a finger on him. Far safer to take a softly, softly approach.

  “There’s nothing on you, Master Kenobi. There’s nothing there.”

  Kenobi ignored him, or couldn’t hear him, tearing at himself like a man in the throes of Sullustan plague-delirium. His cheeks and forehead were scored with red marks. Any moment now he was going to draw blood.

  Vape caution. Bail seized the Jedi’s wrists and held on tight. “Master Kenobi, listen! There’s nothing there! I swear it!” Still no response. Kenobi twisted and fought. “Stop it, you fool, you’re going to hurt yourself!”

  Shocked, Kenobi stared up at him. “Senator?” His gaze flickered around the passenger compartment, as though he couldn’t quite remember where they were. “What happened?”

  Bail let go of him and eased back, giving him some space. “You tell me. One minute you were meditating and the next you were yelling fit to wake the dead.”

  “It was a dream,” Kenobi muttered. “A memory.” Wincing, he sat up and shifted to brace his back against the bunk space behind him. Then he pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them.

  Bail stared; it was a disconcertingly vulnerable gesture. Jarringly at odds with the vivid memory of a Jedi who could carry a starship with the power of his mind… and emerge unscathed from a hail of blasterfire that would have slaughtered any ordinary man.

  And yet here that same Jedi sat now, lost and uncertain. As far from laying down the law as it was possible to get.

  He stood, brushed carpet lint from his trousers, then retreated to the galley and poured Kenobi two fingers of Corellian brandy. He returned to the passenger compartment and held out the glass.

  “Drink,” he said sternly. “And if you think you don’t need it, go look in a mirror.”

  Kenobi took the brandy without argument and tossed its contents down his throat. And if that wasn’t a clue that he’d been shaken to his bootstraps, well…

  “Thank you,” he said hoarsely, handing back the glass.

  Bail waggled it. “More?”

  “No.”

  He put the glass in the galley’s minuscule sink, then headed for the nearest empty chair and sat. “Should I be concerned? For the mission, I mean.”

  “No,” said Kenobi. Despite the brandy he was still ashen, the livid finger marks on his skin unfaded. “I’m sorry if I disturbed you, Senator.”

  “So…” He leaned his elbows on the table. “We’re heading toward a planet with a Sith temple on it, which apparently contains Sith artifacts, their purpose unknown, you’re having bad dreams… and this is just a coincidence?”

  “Correct.”

  Vape that. “Master Kenobi, we had an agreement,” he said coldly. “What you know, I know. Remember?”

  Kenobi glared. “I remember.”

  “Then what was the dream about? What did you remember?”

  “Nothing of relevance. It was personal, Senator. Unrelated to Zigoola.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because I’m sure!” Kenobi clambered to his feet, awkward, with none of his usual oiled ease. “It was my dream, I think I know what it meant.”

  “And that would be my point,” said Bail. “Now I want to know, too. Because we both know you’re perfectly capable of massaging the truth when it suits you.”

  Kenobi’s chin came up, his eyes glittering with temper. There was angry color in his face. “It concerned an incident from my childhood.”

  “Your childhood,” he repeated, and heard the skepticism. “Really?”

  “Yes, really,” said Kenobi. “I did have one.”

  He should let it go at that. In truth, what Kenobi had dreamed was none of his business. And if the Jedi said it wasn’t connected to this mission, he should accept that assertion. It was, after all, a matter of trust. And in order to get it, one had to show it. But he really wanted to know what could so rattle someone like Obi-Wan Kenobi. Curiosity: his besetting sin.

  “So… what happened?” he said, giving in to temptation. “In your unlikely childhood?”

  For a long, silent moment, Kenobi just stared. Then he folded his arms and frowned at the deck. “I was thirteen. Nearly fourteen. On a field trip to Taanab. Part of my Padawan training with Qui-Gon. I was doing a blindfolded Force-seeking exercise. Being young, and inexperienced, I underestimated its complexity. As a result I tumbled into a firebeetle pit.”

  “Firebeetles?” Bail shuddered. “I thought those things were eradicated thirty years ago.”

  Kenobi looked up. “They were, from populated areas. We were in a wasteland on the Ba-Taanab Peninsula.” The faintest of wry smiles. He had himself well in hand again. “There’s no point to a field trip if you don’t encounter obstacles.”

  Obstacles? The Jedi considered carnivorous beetles obstacles? The more I learn of them, the less I understand. What would they consider a nest of gundarks, I wonder? An amusing diversion?

  “It must have been… terrible.”

  “Not at all,” Kenobi said politely. “It was hilarious.”

  No, you nearly got eaten alive. But he didn’t say it. He wished now he’d kept his mouth shut. No wonder Kenobi had come out of his trance screaming. “Look—”

  “Fortunately there was no harm done,” Kenobi continued briskly. “And in the end, the incident was a useful lesson about the folly of overconfidence.”

  A useful lesson. Bail swallowed bemused disbelief. “Well, so long as the trip wasn’t a complete waste.”

  Ignoring that, Kenobi frowned again. “Overconfidence,” he murmured. Then his expression sharpened. “I was mistaken. The memory is relevant. In short, it’s a warning. One I would be criminally remiss not to heed. By not curbing your overconfidence, Senator, by allowing you to override my better judgment, I am putting you in danger.”

  Bail straightened. “What? How the kriff am I overconfident?”

  “You insist on going to Zigoola when you are ill equipped for such a mission.”

  “I thought we’d agreed that I’m more than able to handle myself.”

  “Against droids and pirates, yes,” said Kenobi, dismissive. “But now we are talking about the Sith.”

  “Alinta said the Sith weren’t on Zigoola.”

  “I know what she said, Senator. She could have been wrong.” Kenobi shook his head as though confronted by a particularly slow-learning Padawan. “Have you for one moment stopped to think about this? Before today you had never fought for your life. You’d never even been in danger of losing it. The worst defeat you’ve ever suffered is in the Senate, failing to pass a legislative amendment. And yet you think you’re qualified to accompany me to a Sith planet. You. A politician born into privilege and luxury. What is that, if not overconfidence?”

  Oh. Bail cleared his throat. “I had no idea you despised me so much.”

  Kenobi seemed genuinely surprised. “I don’t despise you. Unlike many of your colleagues you have never exploited your inherited advantages. As far as you’ve been able, you’ve used your political power to better the lives of millions. That is admirable, Senator.”

  He couldn’t decide whether to feel insulted or praised. “I see.”

  “No, I’m afraid you don’t,” said Kenobi, not able—or not wanting—to hide his frustration. “Because outside of the Senate, political power is meaningless. This far from the Republic’s influence your only value lies in what Alderaan would pay to ransom you home!”

  “T
hen I have no value at all, Master Kenobi. My government has strict instructions not to part with a single credit in exchange for my life.”

  Again, Kenobi was surprised. “Really?”

  He laughed, though he was far from amused. “What, you think the possibility of kidnap never crossed my mind?”

  The Jedi’s silence answered him, eloquently.

  “Really, Master Kenobi,” he said. “You must temper this extravagant flattery.” He stood. “I don’t deny that my chosen battlefield has been the Senate and not somewhere like Geonosis or Christophsis. But the choice doesn’t make me inferior to you. And you seem to have forgotten that we’re out here because I’m a politician. I’m the one who learned of this Sith plot. Not you.”

  “Yes. But our circumstances have changed significantly since then,” Kenobi retorted. “We have the information we sought from your contact. To be blunt, Senator Organa, I no longer need you. And while your political achievements might be admirable, this stubborn insistence on childish heroics is not!”

  Silence. Bail stared at him, stunned. Nobody spoke to him like that. Nobody. And then, as the tide of his own anger rose, he saw something flicker deep in Kenobi’s eyes. Understanding dawned.

  “You’re afraid.”

  Now it was Kenobi’s turn to be stunned.

  “Politician, not moron,” he explained, very dry. “Also not blind. What aren’t you telling me, Master Kenobi? Did you dream about Zigoola as well as those firebeetles? What has the Force shown you that has you so concerned?”

  Kenobi began pacing, one hand rubbing the back of his neck, fingers kneading at the muscles. It was another reminder that while the man might be a Jedi, he was also human.

  “Nothing.”

  Because the dark side clouds everything.

  “And that’s why you’re afraid.”

  Kenobi shot him a sharp look. “We may well only encounter Sith artifacts on Zigoola, but they could be as dangerous as the Sith who made them.” His lips twisted in a thin, unamused smile. “If I am… cautious… it is with good reason. So I urge you—again—to reconsider your position. Now that we have Zigoola’s location I can return you to the safety of Coruscant and—”