The Clone Wars: Wild Space

by Karen Miller

  Yoda nodded, as the weight of the hazy future tried to crush him. “Even with the Chosen One, the Force may never be rebalanced,” he finished heavily. “Remember what I have said I do, Master Windu. Very well. Your advice I will take. Seek for Obi-Wan in the Force, I will, and hope his way home to us he can safely find.”

  Standing in the Resolute’s hushed war room, Ahsoka considered Anakin as he stared at the deactivated holotransmitter, arms folded, chin tucked low.

  Oooh, he’s not happy. He’s not happy at all.

  “So, Skyguy. What are we going to do now?” she asked. When he shot her a sharp look she added, “We’re alone! You said I can call you—”

  “Be quiet. I’m thinking.”

  She chewed her lip while she waited. Tried to read the thoughts tumbling through his mind. But when he wanted to, Anakin could hide himself completely. For all the good his face did her right now he might as well be a protocol droid.

  He’s not going to disobey the Council, is he? I mean, there was no wiggle room in those orders. He can’t disobey them. Not even for Master Kenobi. Can he?

  Anakin looked at her again, more kindly this time. “What are we going to do, Ahsoka? What do you think we should do?”

  She took a deep breath. Snapped her spine straight. She’d do him no favors by telling him what he wanted to hear instead of what he needed to hear. Master Kenobi had practically said as much when they were at Bothawui. And who was she, a lowly Padawan, to argue with the great Obi-Wan Kenobi?

  “I think we have to do what Master Windu told us. I know you’re upset about losing Artoo. I know you’re worried about Master Kenobi. So am I. But we’re at war, Skyguy, and that’s bigger than both of us. How can we beat the Separatists if we don’t work as a team?”

  A muscle leapt along Anakin’s tight jaw. “How can we beat the Separatists if we follow bad orders? The Jedi Council isn’t always right, Ahsoka.”

  “Maybe not,” she said, after a doubtful pause. “But they can’t always be wrong.”

  He pulled a face. “Can’t they?”

  And what she was supposed to say to that? “Ummm…”

  “Never mind,” he said, glancing at her. “You’re probably right. Besides, I might have a bad feeling about him, but I can’t tell where Obi-Wan is or what he’s doing. So even if I was prepared to disregard Master Windu and go after him, I wouldn’t begin to know where to start looking.”

  Which was why he was so worried. “I don’t think he’d want you to go after him, Master. Do you?”

  “Maybe not,” Anakin admitted with the faintest of smiles. “But Obi-Wan doesn’t always know what’s best for him.”

  Ahsoka felt her mouth drop open. “And you do?”

  “Yes,” he said simply, then headed for the door. “Come on. We need to get this battle group headed for Allanteen Six. Then you and I can put in some training time with Captain Rex.”

  Great. I wonder if Rex can teach me any tricks that’ll help me keep you under control?

  Bemused, resigned, she followed him from the room.

  They abandoned the crashed starship soon after daybreak. Zigoola’s early-morning air was cool and dry, the sky unclouded, a faint breeze stirring. Bail hitched up his makeshift backpack, trying to fit it more comfortably against his shoulder blades. Trying to ignore the ache in his wrenched, complaining shoulder.

  As he and Obi-Wan headed across the sparse plateau, he slid a considering gaze sideways toward the Jedi. Had the man gotten any sleep? He suspected not. There was a heavy-eyed weariness about him this morning that spoke eloquently of a troubled night. And during their preparations for leaving, they’d exchanged only a handful of words.

  So do I say something, or do I pretend nothing’s wrong? If I pretend nothing’s wrong, and then something happens, how will I know what to do? How to help?

  Obi-Wan sighed. “I’m fine, Bail. You don’t need to worry.”

  How profoundly unsettling to have one’s thoughts read so precisely. “You’re fine now, maybe,” he conceded. “But what if that changes?”

  “I’m doing my best to see that it doesn’t.”

  Doing his best? What did that mean? More secret, unsettling Jedi business, probably. “Can you still feel the Sith?”

  “Yes,” said Obi-Wan after a moment. “Yes, I can feel them.”

  “And?”

  Obi-Wan shifted his own roughly constructed backpack. “And what?”

  “And so does that mean they’re—they’re attacking you? Right now? While we’re walking?”

  “Yes, Bail,” said Obi-Wan. His voice sounded tight. “But you must not concern yourself. I am in control.”

  Bail slowed. Stopped. Obi-Wan kept walking for three strides, then he stopped, too. Turned around slowly, revealing a pale face grooved with lines of stress.

  “What?”

  Bail grimaced. “I want to help you. How can I help you?”

  “You can be quiet,” said Obi-Wan. “Talking is a distraction. And the Sith…”

  “What about them?” he prompted when the Jedi didn’t continue. “Obi-Wan, what are they doing?”

  “Trying to find a way in,” said Obi-Wan. “It would be best for both of us if they failed.”

  Well, yes. By all means state the obvious. “They’re still… playing with your mind? Making you remember things?”

  “Not at this moment.”

  “But they were? Last night?”

  Obi-Wan looked away, then nodded. “Yes.”

  He wanted to ask, What kind of things? He wanted to know exactly what the Jedi was facing, because they were in this mess together, whether Obi-Wan liked it or not.

  But he won’t tell me, I know it. He’ll say I’m distracting him. He’ll say it’s none of my business. He’ll say I’m not to worry. That he’s a Jedi, and he can handle it.

  Frustrated, Bail chewed at his lip. “How bad is this going to get, Obi-Wan? Honestly.”

  “Honestly?” Obi-Wan shrugged. “Honestly, Senator, I have no idea. But I think it’s safe to say things will get worse before they get better.”

  Wonderful. “Maybe this is a mistake. Maybe you should stay here, with the ship, and let me investigate the temple.”

  “A kind thought, but unfortunately impractical,” Obi-Wan replied. “Even if you reached it safely, you’d have no idea of what was in there. No way of identifying the purpose of its artifacts. If there are artifacts. No. We continue as planned.”

  He nodded. “All right. But you have to tell me what’s going on, Obi-Wan. No shutting me out. No treating me like an idiot. And if you need help, you have to ask for it. Agreed?”

  Small dust devils danced across the landscape, whipped up by the rising breeze. Obi-Wan watched them, his face impossible to read. At last he sighed.

  “Agreed,” he said. He sounded profoundly unhappy. “Now please, Bail. No more talking. I need to concentrate.”

  So they kept on walking, in silence, and the Zigoola morning expanded around them.

  Nearly two hours later, as they tramped steadily across the vast, uneven plateau, Obi-Wan abruptly halted. Stood completely still, his expression suspended, like someone trying to recall a name or some other elusive piece of information. And then, without warning, his face twisted and he dropped to his knees. Began clawing at his own body, his eyes wide open in horror.

  Bail felt a sharp breath strangle in his throat. He knew what this was. The Sith had breached their enemy’s defenses, and now Obi-Wan was once more reliving the firebeetles on Taanab.

  So much for him being in control. What do I do? What do I do?

  He had to stop it somehow, couldn’t let the onslaught continue. Just like the last time, Obi-Wan was in danger of inflicting serious self-harm. Shrugging out of his backpack, he let it fall to the hard ground, crouched in front of the Jedi, and took hold of his upper arms.

  “Obi-Wan! Snap out of it!”

  But instead of waking up, Obi-Wan attacked. Not with the Force this time, but with clenched fists a
nd desperate strength. He wasn’t a particularly tall man, and his build was wiry, not bulked with muscle, but he could strike hard and strike fast.

  The flurry of blows caught Bail in his face and his belly. Split open his scabbed-over lip and punched the air from his lungs. Toppling sideways, gasping, he felt himself hit the ground in an ungainly sprawl, skewered with pain. He tasted blood. Saw the brightening sky wheel uncontrollably overhead. Thought, Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea, Organa.

  Vision smearing, he urged his rudely woken hurts to subside. Tried to sit up, failed, tried again, and succeeded.

  “You fool!” shouted Obi-Wan, looming over him. “What were you thinking? Don’t you know I could have killed you?”

  Bail squinted up at him. “Oh. So it did work. You’re welcome, by the way.”

  Spitting a colorful Toydarian curse, Obi-Wan tugged off his own makeshift backpack and rummaged among the water bottles and mealpacks. “I can’t heal you,” he said, pulling out the starship’s compact first-aid kit. “My control is compromised. You’ll have to make do with this.”

  “Fine,” he said, reaching for the kit, but Obi-Wan slapped his hand away. Beneath the temper, there was fear.

  “I’ll do it,” the Jedi snapped. “Sit still and be quiet.”

  “Fine,” he said again, and let the man minister to him.

  Obi-Wan’s doctoring was brusquely efficient. When he was finished he repacked the first-aid kit, shoved it into the backpack, then looked up. “Bail, you must never do that again.”

  “You should have more faith in yourself, Obi-Wan,” he said quietly. “I don’t for a minute believe you’d kill me.”

  “Then you are a fool,” said Obi-Wan, sitting back on his heels. “Because I’ve already tried once.”

  True. But if they were going to survive this disaster, they couldn’t afford to lose themselves in mistrust. “I can suffer a few bruises, Obi-Wan, if it means you don’t have to relive what happened on Taanab—or anything else the Sith want to throw at you.”

  Obi-Wan stood. Ran a hand over his beard, clearly frustrated. “More misplaced heroics? Spare me, Senator—and do as you’re told. If—when—I lose ground to the Sith the next time, stay back. Let the attack run its course.”

  “Let you hurt yourself, you mean?” he retorted, clambering to his feet. “I don’t think so, Master Kenobi. If for no other reason than self-preservation. I won’t get off this rock without you in one piece.”

  “And you won’t get off it if you’re dead!”

  Stalemate.

  They glared at each other as the dust devils danced. Then Obi-Wan’s furious expression faded… and once again that unexpected vulnerability was revealed.

  “Please, Bail,” he said. “Don’t make me worry about you. If you do, you’ll weaken me. And this is hard enough as it is.”

  Bail folded his arms and stared at the ground. Stang. It wasn’t fair, he wanted to fight. Didn’t want to concede the argument. But he was beaten and he knew it, his stubborn resistance neatly punctured by Obi-Wan’s simple, heartfelt plea.

  He lifted his gaze. “So I’m supposed to… what? Just sit on my hands? No matter what happens? No matter what the Sith do? No matter what you do?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And then what… pick up the pieces afterward?”

  A little of the strain in Obi-Wan’s eyes eased. “Provided it’s not too much trouble, yes.”

  Unfolding his arms, he shoved his hands in his pockets and stared around them at the plateau, and the dust devils, and lastly toward the first distant tree line. Three days of this? Three days, or maybe longer?

  I should’ve stayed at home, in bed.

  “Bail,” said Obi-Wan. “You said I must ask for your help if I needed it. Well, I’m asking. This is how you can help me.”

  Kriff, their games of sabacc hadn’t lied. This man certainly knew how to play dirty. “All right,” he said reluctantly. “We’ll do things your way. For now. But the discussion isn’t over. It’s merely suspended. If this gets out of hand, Obi-Wan, if it really does look like you’re putting your own life at risk. Then we think again. We find a different way of doing things. Agreed?”

  Obi-Wan picked up his makeshift backpack and shrugged into it. “We’ll see.”

  Bail stared at him, dumbfounded. Kriff, kriff if Kenobi wasn’t the most stubborn, the most infuriating, the most impossible—

  “Come along, Senator,” said the Jedi, and started walking. “As someone said recently, we’re burning daylight.”

  And that had him hustling his own makeshift pack back on, cursing his aching shoulder, cursing Kenobi, and the Sith, and the galaxy at large. Cursing fate, for landing him in this predicament. With the backpack settled, he jogged to catch up.

  What a tale I’ll have to tell you, Breha, when I get home.

  Because he was getting home. The Sith weren’t winning this one. They weren’t… they weren’t… they kriffing well weren’t.

  A Jedi youngling in the Temple is taught many things. First among them is this: Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering. Beware the dark side, Jedi.

  And the second lesson goes: Mastery of self is the only mastery that matters.

  Obi-Wan feared greatly his self-mastery would fail.

  The world outside, the world beyond his inner world, involved walking beneath an inimical sun, upon the skin of a planet that was trying to kill him, toward the stronghold of an enemy bent upon his destruction. It involved a good man, Bail Organa, who should not have been by his side. Involved insufficient nourishment, fractured sleep, and a litany of physical ills that made the physical world a trial.

  But the discomforts of that world were nothing but an echo. Reality lay behind his eyes, in the realm of spirit… where he felt like a candle set to burn in a hurricane.

  Since last night the wind of the dark side had blown upon him without cease, bludgeoning him with the cruelest of memories. Seeking to tear his battling spirit apart. The firebeetles… Tayvor Mandirly… Qui-Gon’s death… and Geonosis. A pitiless procession of fear and death and loss, with barely enough time between each assault to properly recover. To catch his gasping breath. To rebuild his defenses, ready for the next attack.

  Turned inward, turned upon himself, brutally cut off from the light side of the Force, he husbanded his flame. Drew upon the lessons of every Jedi who had taught him: Yoda and Mace Windu and most especially Qui-Gon Jinn. And Anakin had taught him; he leaned on that unlikely strength. The Sith in Theed had taught him, and Dooku in his cave. Those last lessons were the most bitter; they’d not go to waste.

  He saw himself a candle. He saw himself behind a wall. Brick by brick he tried to raise it. Brick by brick, it was destroyed. Every death was a hammer blow. Every loss a chisel. The Sith were a wily foe, they knew where and when to strike. They were drawn to weak places, to old griefs and unhealed wounds. He built his barricade against them. They laughed and tore it down.

  And as they laughed they whispered, like a lover in his ear: Die, Jedi. Die, Jedi. Die, Jedi. Die.

  Dimly, he was aware of Bail Organa’s concern. Could feel it like a warm hand, placed in comfort on his shoulder. But even as he drew strength from that he felt its burden. Felt the crushing weight of the man, who was his to protect… or fail.

  I should have left him at the starship. I shouldn’t have brought him at all. I should have found a way to keep him out of this. I’m going to get him killed.

  In a strange way, Bail reminded him of Padmé: bold and brash and stubbornly brave. Willing to risk himself without a second thought, for another, for a cause, to uphold what was right. If the Sith were to be defeated, it would be by people like Bail and Padmé as much as by the Jedi.

  So he can’t die here, on Zigoola. The Republic needs him. I must protect him, no matter what it costs.

  In the world beyond his spirit, precious time was passing. And in this place, time—like the Sith—was not his friend. Every faltering step
took him closer to the hurricane’s cold eye. Closer to the Sith temple, beating heart of the thing that burned and yearned for his death. He feared that when he reached it, he’d be burned out. Burned away. Nothing but a memory. Someone else’s unhealed wound.

  But fear leads to anger, and anger leads to hate, and hate leads to suffering. Which means the dark side wins. So he husbanded his flame. Brick by brick he built his wall. Because the alternative was surrender.

  And no one had ever taught him that.

  Chapter Nineteen

  They reached the first stretch of tangled woodland late in the afternoon. Gnarled branches latticed overhead, filtering the fading sunlight. Skeletal leaf litter covered the uneven ground, rustling beneath their feet. The air smelled old and dead. No birds in the twisted trees, no sign of life at all.

  Sweaty and tired, Bail looked at Obi-Wan. “Are we stopping for a moment?”

  They were the first words he’d spoken since their firebeetle argument. His voice sounded rusty. He wanted water, desperately, but they had to conserve their supply. Nothing about this place suggested they’d come across a river or creek or even a pond anytime soon. And if they ran out of water before they’d found a way home… well… it didn’t bear thinking about. Dying of thirst was a wicked way to perish.

  Slowing his pace a little, Obi-Wan glanced up through the brown, laceworked foliage. Haphazardly dappled with light and shade, he looked drained. Maintaining his own silence, he’d been fighting the Sith with every step he took. And this was only the first day…

  “We should keep going,” he said. His voice sounded hoarse, too. “At least until sunset.”

  “Why?” Bail demanded, abruptly rebellious. Resentful. It’s all right for you, Kenobi. But I’m not a Jedi. I’m a mere human. “A few minutes rest. What can that hurt? There’s no point killing ourselves to get there, Obi-Wan. We didn’t even stop to eat.” Instead they’d shared a mealpack while walking; he was still battling indigestion. “I say we take a moment to catch our breath.”