The Clone Wars: Wild Space

by Karen Miller

  But it’s not impassable. Not impossible. Just difficult. And we have to do it.

  Because on the other side of the ravine… so close if he were a bird, if he had wings, if he could fly… the Sith temple he’d first seen as they crashed onto Zigoola. Except to his eye, it looked more like a palace than a temple, a palace of black stone, shining dully in Zigoola’s pale dawn. Blunt. Emphatic. A monument to hate.

  Bail let out a sharp breath. “Hate us all you like,” he murmured bleakly. “But we’re still going to use your secrets against you. We’re going to defeat you. Just you wait and see.”

  He turned his back on the building and returned to the clearing faster than was prudent, a new sense of purpose filling him with deceptive, fleeting strength. Obi-Wan was still sleeping, numbing exhaustion overriding his preternatural awareness of time and place. Leaving him undisturbed, Bail heated a mealpack and quickly ate his half. Then he emptied the backpack to check their supplies. Eight meals remaining, but for how much longer he wasn’t sure. He had no idea how long they’d remain viable out of a conservator. He and Obi-Wan hadn’t given themselves food poisoning yet, but likely it was just a matter of time. Anyway, there were eight. And since they were eating two a day between them…

  But we’ll be off this rock before we run out, or they go rotten. We have to be. That’s all there is to it.

  “Talking to oneself is counted a sign of instability, you know,” said Obi-Wan, his voice so thin. So lackluster. “I don’t suppose there’s something you want to tell me, is there?”

  Bail looked up. Found a smile from somewhere. “Yes, there is, as a matter of fact. This ends today, Obi-Wan.”

  Obi-Wan sat up, painfully, keeping his heat-seal blanket tugged close. “You’ve found the temple.”

  He jerked a thumb toward the forest behind them. “On the other side of the trees. There’s this final belt of forest—it’s rough going, but if we take it steady we’ll be fine—then a ravine on the far side. The temple’s at the top. On another plateau.”

  “A ravine,” said Obi-Wan, thinking about that. “And then a Sith temple. I can’t wait.”

  “Yeah,” he said, pulling a face. “So. How are you feeling? Is the voice still—”

  “Yes,” said Obi-Wan curtly. “It’s still shouting.”

  He rummaged in the pile of supplies from the backpack and pulled out the bottle of Corellian brandy, almost half full. “I know you don’t drink, as a rule, but… is there any chance this could help?”

  Obi-Wan blinked at him. “You brought brandy.”

  “I thought we might need it,” he said, knowing he sounded defensive. “Alcohol’s a disinfectant, I thought in case—” He stared, as Obi-Wan held out his hand. “Are you sure?”

  “No,” said the Jedi, shrugging. “But I’ve tried everything else I can think of and none of it’s working.”

  He gave Obi-Wan the bottle. Watched him unscrew the cap and tip its contents down his throat. Cough. Splutter. Come close to throwing it straight back up.

  “That—truly is—revolting,” Obi-Wan croaked eventually. “You drink it—for pleasure? You must be—mad.”

  Bail retrieved the emptied bottle. “To each his own. But you should eat something now. That amount of brandy on an empty stomach is asking for trouble.” He handed over the half-eaten mealpack. “Go on.”

  Obi-Wan eyed the nerf patties sourly. “I’m not hungry.”

  “I don’t care.”

  Scowling, ungracious, Obi-Wan snatched the container. Poked the cold meat with one finger then ate it, morsel by morsel, gagging. When the container was empty he discarded it, then sat cross-legged with his head bowed and his hands on his knees.

  “So?” Bail asked eventually. “What’s the verdict?”

  Obi-Wan pressed his fingers to his eyes. “It’s a little better,” he said at last. “The voice is… it’s muffled now. A whisper again, instead of a shout.” He sounded surprised. “It would appear alcohol helps.”

  He pulled a face. “In that case we should’ve brought the rest of the Blackmoon ale, too.”

  “No,” said Obi-Wan, letting his hands drop. “Because if alcohol muffles the voice it might also interfere with my already limited ability to—”

  His head jerked back and he toppled sideways, slowly. And so the first visions of the day began.

  “Stang,” said Bail, wearily, and began to repack their supplies.

  This time he thought Obi-Wan might not come out of it. Memory after memory, a battering so prolonged and relentless that in the end he lost track of how many disasters the Jedi was reliving. But the visions ended at last. He had to help Obi-Wan sit up. After that, once he’d cajoled him into drinking a few mouthfuls of Zigoola’s horrible water, then watched him compose himself into some semblance of calm, he folded his arms tight to his ribs and stared down at the man.

  “So the brandy wasn’t such a good idea, I’m thinking. Sorry.”

  “Not… your fault,” said Obi-Wan, frowning muzzily. “You didn’t make me drink it.” He took another mouthful of water, rinsed his mouth, and spat it out.

  “So we’re good to go again? We should go,” said Bail, hating the bullying tone of his voice. Hating that he had to be this man, poking and prodding and hustling to get his way. But Obi-Wan looked shattered. Looked ready to fall asleep again. And they were running out of time. “Now, Obi-Wan,” he added. “And no matter what happens we have to keep going. We have to get inside that temple and find that Sith Holocron and break it into little pieces. And after that, we find a way back home. Because I’ll be kriffed if I’m going to lie down and die on this rock. I am not giving these Sith the satisfaction.”

  “Bail…” Obi-Wan wrapped his arms around his shins, as though fighting to keep himself from falling apart. “I can’t. I can’t go any closer to that place. I’m not certain how much longer I’ll be safe.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t let you hurt yourself.”

  Obi-Wan smiled, very faintly. “Safe for you to be around, I mean. I fear I might soon become… dangerous.”

  Oh. “Well, you can’t stay here,” he retorted. “I’m not leaving you behind. You’re going to hear that voice and have these visions wherever you are, so you’ll do it wherever I am. At least then I can keep an eye on you.”

  “Bail.” Obi-Wan dropped his forehead to his knees, hiding his face. Hiding his eyes. “Even I have my limits.”

  No. No. They were not giving up now. “Maybe,” he said, keeping his voice tough. Unsympathetic. “But you haven’t reached them yet. You haven’t hurt me yet. And I don’t believe you will. Besides, I’ve got your lightsaber. How much harm can you do? Now let’s get a move on.”

  With an effort, Obi-Wan stood. “If that’s your idea of diplomatic bargaining,” he said, swaying on his feet, “then I must tell you your technique leaves a great deal to be desired.”

  Bail smiled, though he was closer to tears than laughter. “I’m borrowing a leaf out of Padmé’s book.”

  Obi-Wan stared, puzzled, and then shook his head. “Oh yes. I remember. Anakin told me. Aggressive negotiations. Very droll.”

  “That’s our Padmé,” he agreed. “The queen of droll. Now come on. We’re in the home stretch. We can do this. So let’s go.”

  Closing his eyes, Obi-Wan tipped his colorless face to the empty sky. “Very well, Bail,” he said at last. “We’ll do it your way. On one condition.”

  “That sounds ominous,” he said, trying for lightness. Failing, abysmally.

  Obi-Wan opened his sunken eyes. Beneath the pain and exhaustion, something fierce and unflinching burned. “Make sure you keep that lightsaber close. And if you so much as suspect I’m about to turn on you…”

  What? He had to be joking. “That won’t happen.”

  “It might.”

  “It won’t. You are Master Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

  “Yes. Well,” said Obi-Wan wryly. So pale. So punished. “Master Kenobi has seen better days.”

  The pace was much
slower the second time, heading for the ravine. Bail was shockingly tired, but Obi-Wan was almost spent. Struggled to keep his feet, to negotiate the uneven ground. Halfway to the ravine he collapsed, assaulted by more visions. Bail sat beside him, waiting, his spine braced against a gnarled, knotted tree trunk, shallowly breathing the stale mustiness of the forest. Remembering the sweetness of Alderaan’s flowering tarla woods. The soft grass beneath the magnificent towering trees, the drifting birdsong, the deep blue sky, the warm shafting sunlight, Breha’s hand in his. He closed his eyes and dreamed himself back there, dreamed his own memories so he wouldn’t have to listen to Obi-Wan’s anymore. It felt like a betrayal, but he couldn’t help it. He had limits, too, and his had been reached.

  At length Obi-Wan came to and they continued, following the yellow sap-scars he’d made at dawn. Bail found himself constantly tensing, waiting for the next round of visions to strike his companion. Worrying that Obi-Wan’s worst fears would come to pass, and the Sith would break him. Shatter him with more hallucinations and turn him into a monster. Before they left the clearing, while Obi-Wan was buckling on his belt, Bail had pulled the lightsaber close to the top of the backpack. The thought of using the weapon made him feel sick.

  It won’t come to that. It won’t. It won’t.

  But was that wishful thinking?

  I don’t care if it is. It won’t.

  They made it out of the woodland, to the ravine gashed so deep in the landscape. When Obi-Wan saw the Sith temple he staggered and nearly fell, his face draining to gray.

  “Breathe!” said Bail, lowering him to the stony soil a safe distance from the ravine’s edge. “Don’t look at it. Just breathe.”

  “I don’t need to look at it,” said Obi-Wan, one clenched fist pressed against his heart. “I can feel it. I can hear it, shouting…”

  Every muscle aching, Bail stared at the temple. Then he looked down at Obi-Wan. “Okay. I was wrong. You were right. You can’t do this. Go back in the woods. I’ll investigate the temple, destroy whatever I find. Then I’ll—”

  “What? No,” said Obi-Wan. “You can’t. You might destroy a way for us to call for help. You wouldn’t recognize a Sith communications device if it bit you.”

  Grimacing, he dropped to one knee. I should have thought of that. “Good point. Okay. Then I’ll bring whatever I find back here.”

  “No.” Obi-Wan grabbed his wrist, his face sheened with sweat. “There’s no way of knowing if the artifacts are dangerous for you to touch. Besides, look at that ravine, Bail. You might make it down safely. You might make it up the other side safely. Once. You don’t dare risk it twice. Not if you don’t have to.”

  “Yeah, it’s treacherous,” he agreed, and eased his wrist free. “But you can’t climb it. Look at you.”

  “I’m fine.”

  He almost laughed. “If fine was another word for ‘on the brink of collapse,’ I’d agree with you. But it isn’t. You’re not fine. You’re losing.”

  “From a certain point of view, possibly,” said Obi-Wan. Then he smiled, a feral baring of teeth. “But I prefer to think of it as… not winning at the moment. So we go.”

  He was crazy. They were crazy, both of them. Starving, exhausted, pushed to the ends of their physical and mental limits. And now they were going to go rock climbing? And yet… what was the alternative? Curl up and wait for death? Bare their throats to the Sith and say: All right. You win.

  He looked again at the temple. So close. So far away. Then he looked back at Obi-Wan. “You’re sure?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s what you said when we were on approach to Zigoola,” he muttered. Then he sighed, stood, and bent to help Obi-Wan to his feet. “All right. We’ll risk it.”

  “Wait,” said Obi-Wan, and unbuckled his belt. He fumbled the straps, his fingers clumsy. “Put this on. Clip my lightsaber to it.”

  Bail stepped back. “Why?”

  This time Obi-Wan’s smile was gentle. “It’s called being on the safe side.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t need it.”

  “You might.” “I won’t.”

  “You don’t know that!” said Obi-Wan, not smiling at all now. “You don’t know what will happen when I’m in spitting distance of that Sith temple, and neither do I.”

  “I know you’re not going to kill me.”

  “Bail,” said Obi-Wan. His breathing was ragged. “Don’t be a fool. You know nothing of the kind. And without that lightsaber you will never stop me. Take the belt and wear my weapon. Please.”

  Ignoring Obi-Wan’s desperation would be tantamount to cruelty, so he took the belt and buckled it around his waist. Pulled the lightsaber from his backpack and clipped it to the belt. It felt odd. Heavy. He couldn’t bring himself to look at it. Glanced at Obi-Wan instead.

  I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, that I got you into this.

  They walked to the edge of the ravine, and looked over the side.

  “Zigzag down there?” Bail suggested, pointing to a hint, a suggestion of a trail, running between the tumbled rocks and weathered gullies and twisted, half-grown saplings. “Go left, then track right?”

  “That seems reasonable,” said Obi-Wan, and he coughed. He sounded like Alinta, a ghastly dry-land bubbling.

  “I’ll go first,” he said. “You stick close behind me. That way—if something happens—” If you have more visions… if you fall…

  Obi-Wan slid a look sideways. “I don’t think so. I’ll go first. That way—if something happens—I won’t take you with me.”

  Bail chewed his lip, but there was no time for more arguments. “All right,” he said grudgingly.

  They started down the ravine.

  Sliding rock. Slipping dirt. Scrapes, cuts, and bruises. Step by uncertain, dangerous step, they navigated their way down the steep, jagged slope. More than once they overbalanced, or skidded down a rocky gully. Lost their footing as the dry yellow-brown dirt shifted beneath them. More than once they sat down, hard, clutching at sapling or rock to prevent disaster, their jarred spines screaming, their hearts hammering out of control. Sweat streaked their faces, stung their eyes, slicked their palms. Soaked their stinking, filthy clothes.

  And brooding above them, a silent menace, a vulture of stone, the black Sith temple, the source of every ill.

  With each jarring footfall Bail felt the lightsaber gently slap him. He resented its presence. Dreaded what it meant. Dreaded that Obi-Wan would finally succumb to this place. He couldn’t begin to understand the kind of technology that could do this, that could reach into a Jedi’s mind, a mind as strong and disciplined and formidable as Obi-Wan’s, and tear it apart piecemeal, memory by memory.

  He couldn’t understand a sentient being who’d want to.

  The brutal descent continued, agonizingly slow. They reached the quarter mark. The one-third mark. They reached the halfway point, where a kink in the landscape led to one short, sharp drop, then unrolled more kindly to the ravine’s uneven floor. Bail started to feel sick. His muscles shrieked, his tendons burned. His bones were throbbing. He wanted this to be over. He wanted to lay down and weep. Sleep. Wake up from this nightmare.

  He looked at Obi-Wan, one tight pace ahead of him. If I feel sick… if I feel like dying… “Hey. You okay?”

  “Yes,” grunted Obi-Wan. He was breathing too hard. Too fast. His feet were faltering, his hands bloody, his balance uncertain. Surely, any moment now, the Jedi was going to fall…

  “I need to stop,” he said, and caught hold of a jutting tree root as a brake. “Obi-Wan.”

  Obi-Wan turned sideways, his boots skidding as he slid to a halt. “I said I—”

  “I do, I need to stop!” he insisted as Obi-Wan glared. Tried not to betray shock, or dismay, or anything that would tell Obi-Wan just how bad he looked. “I’m not a Jedi, I don’t have unlimited resources.”

  “Bail…” Obi-Wan blotted his ashen face on his sleeve. “Don’t treat me like a fool. Don’t—don’t—�
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  His eyes rolled back. His rasping breath caught. He was going. Going under. The visions had returned.

  “Obi-Wan!” Bail shouted and threw himself forward, his right hand still anchored to the sapling’s jutting root. Rag-limp, Obi-Wan toppled. Bail flung out his left hand, caught hold of the Jedi’s sleeve, his wrist, and was jerked groundward, hard. His face hit rough rock. Pain exploded through his nose and his partially healed split lip. He felt blood. Tasted blood. Bright lights burst behind his eyelids. The air left his lungs in a nauseating rush, and his wrenched shoulder—bearing Obi-Wan’s full deadweight—lit up like fireworks on House Organa’s Founding Day.

  He let out the pain in one long, anguished cry. Heard its shivering echoes bounce through the ravine, and kept the next one trapped in his throat. Lifting his head he looked at Obi-Wan, but the Jedi was lost again in Hellish memories. He could scream until his skull cracked, Obi-Wan wouldn’t hear him.

  He put his head down. Locked the fingers of his right hand around that tree root and his left around Obi-Wan’s narrow wrist. And then, on a deep breath, he closed his eyes to all sensation.

  Don’t let go… don’t let go… don’t let go… don’t let go.

  But of course, he did.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Qui-gon was dying in his arms, yet again, when pain ripped him out of the memory. New pain. Physical pain. Sharp. Urgent. His forehead. His left knee. His left elbow. His right thigh.

  The Sith voice silenced at last, incredibly, his mind startlingly clear, he opened his eyes and stared at the sky. Someone was shouting.

  “Obi-Wan! Obi-Wan!”

  A shower of dirt and small stones rained down on him. He spat gravel, tried to push to his elbows, and that hurt even more.

  “No—no—don’t move!” the voice shouted. “I’ll be right there—don’t move—don’t even breathe—”