The Clone Wars: Wild Space

by Karen Miller

  Well, that was silly. He had to breathe. He spat more gravel, trying to identify the voice. There’d been so many voices: Qui-Gon and Anakin and Dooku and Tayvor Mandirly and Xanatos. Even the firebeetles had voices, shrill ravenous squeakings as they chewed through his flesh.

  Bail. Bail Organa. That’s who had shouted. This was Zigoola. The absent Sith were trying to kill him. And—

  Oh dear. I seem to have fallen down a ravine.

  Breathing out hard he sat up, head swimming, pounding, and found himself on the ravine’s rocky floor. That wasn’t good. He looked down at his left knee. His ripped leggings were soaked bright red. So was his left sleeve. And yes, that was more blood down his right thigh. Lifting his hand he touched fingertips to his forehead, above his right eye. The skin was split, he could feel it. His fingers came away wet and crimson, and the pain was like a vibrosaw. Bad. Very bad.

  And yet there was relief, and something like laughter. Because his body’s pain had stopped the endless recycling of memories… and silenced, however briefly, the Sith’s relentless voice.

  Well. That’s wonderful. Let’s hear it for pain.

  A colder, saner part of himself knew only too well that this nonsensical giddiness was a reaction to the long days of unbearable strain and sorrow he’d endured since the crash. He knew that. He knew it. And yet he couldn’t resist…

  Bail skidded down beside him in a fresh shower of rocks and dirt. His lip was split open again, his nose scraped raw, and his hands, and his ruined shirt was shredded across the left shoulder. His left arm hung awkwardly, and his bloodied face was tight. But he still had the belt, with the lightsaber clipped to it.

  “You fool, I said don’t move!” Bail shouted. “Are you all right? I can’t believe you’re not dead.”

  How much longer would this respite from the Sith’s assault last? Not long, not long, surely. We are running out of time…

  “No, I’m not dead. Help me to stand.”

  “Stand? Obi-Wan—”

  “Bail,” he said sharply. “While I’m hurting I can think. Right now I’m hurting rather a lot so let’s not waste it, shall we?”

  Bail’s bloodied lips thinned, which made him wince. “All right. I’ll help you stand.”

  Which was an interesting exercise. It certainly got him thinking, as his left knee and right thigh shrieked a scarlet protest, and the vibrosaw cutting through his head shifted into top gear.

  “Good thing you’re wearing Jedi clothes,” said Bail, inspecting the damage. “They protected you from the worst of it, but you’re still pretty torn up.”

  “As long as there’s no arterial bleeding I’ll be fine,” he said, letting his gaze track up the other side of the ravine, to the Sith temple squatting above it in the sun. In the depths of his mind, barely audible through the pain, a malicious voice started whispering…

  “Come on,” he said, and took a limping step toward the rising slope. Fresh pain flared and the voice fell silent. “Before it’s too late.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Bail. “You want to climb up there now?”

  He stopped. Looked over his shoulder. “Certainly. Why? What do you suggest we do? Cultivate a suntan?”

  “Obi-Wan!” said Bail, incredulous. “Have you lost your mind?”

  He shuffled around to face Alderaan’s Senator. “No, Bail. I have, against all expectation and most likely temporarily, regained it. Now, I realize you’re malnourished, sleep-deprived, and quite possibly concussed, but I need you to listen to me, very closely. If I do not take advantage of this brief lucidity, the next time I lose awareness will likely be the last. I must get into that temple, I must find something that will help me help us leave this planet. I must—”

  DIE JEDI, DIE JEDI, DIE JEDI, DIE.

  “No!” he shouted, and struck his injured knee with a clenched fist. The pain was excruciating. He would have fallen again if Bail hadn’t grabbed his arm. His injured arm. Which only made the flames roar higher.

  Teeth gritted, eyes burning, he took Bail by the shoulder. “Stop arguing, Senator. We’re not on Coruscant now and this is not a topic for endless Senate debate. I am trying to save our lives. Now are you going to help me or not?”

  Bail stared at him, shocked silent, then nodded. The poor chap looked done in. I’m so sorry, Bail, that I got you into this.

  “Okay, Master Kenobi,” the Senator said shakily. “You’re the Jedi. We’ll do it your way.”

  They made it up the other side of the ravine.

  Long since past caring if they swore or cursed or cried out, they dragged themselves over its crumbling edge and onto the parched, brittle grass of this new plateau. And when they’d crawled far enough to be certain there was no danger of falling, they collapsed facedown on the ground, sobbing for air. Sobbing with relief. Sobbing in the shadow of the brooding Sith temple.

  Through the lava-hot pain, Obi-Wan felt the building’s cold touch. Felt its menace freeze him and close its fist around his heart. His newly bright blood, which had begun to pump so freely, thickened and darkened and turned again to sludge. And the Sith’s spiteful voice shouted, more gleeful than ever:

  DIE JEDI, DIE JEDI, DIE JEDI, DIE.

  No… no… not this quickly. It wasn’t fair. The darkness was pouring back, the black wind was rising… and his tiny bright flame was guttering out…

  “Obi-Wan! Don’t listen to it. Stay with me!”

  That was Bail Organa. The Senator from Alderaan. Far too good a man to be a politician. Echoing in his mind, all the failures of his past. A maelstrom of death and loss and misery, sucking him down. It had been bad in the crashed ship, in the first woodland, on the rock plain and within the second stretch of forest.

  But those times were nothing compared to this.

  “Obi-Wan!”

  He rolled over. Opened his eyes. Stared at Bail.

  DIE JEDI, DIE JEDI, DIE JEDI, DIE.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered through the screaming in his head. “I can’t hear you. It’s too loud.”

  Bail’s lips were moving. Dried blood flaked and fell. Was this important? It must be, the Senator was shouting, his wide eyes full of fear.

  Should I be frightened? No. Fear is bad. Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering. Beware the dark side, Jedi.

  Beware the dark side… for it’s all around you now.

  Bail fisted his stone-scraped fingers in Obi-Wan’s dirty, bloodstained tunic and lifted him partway off the ground. The Jedi’s head lolled as though he were a broken doll. There was nothing familiar in his eyes. His lips were moving, he was saying something, but no sound emerged to give the words life.

  “Obi-Wan!” he shouted again, shaking him. “You have to fight it! We’re so close. You can’t give up now!”

  Except Obi-Wan hadn’t given up. He’d been defeated. The Sith had defeated him at last. He’d said it, he’d said he wouldn’t stay lucid for long, and when he went away the next time, he’d go away for good.

  And here he was. Gone.

  When Obi-Wan slipped from his grasp in the ravine, he’d thought the Jedi was dead. He thought he’d killed him. Couldn’t believe the man had survived. Then he’d thought Obi-Wan really had gone crazy, talking about suntans, punching himself in his injured knee. And then he’d climbed up that kriffing ravine. Bleeding. Hurting. Without his precious light side, finding strength from who knew where. It had nearly killed him, and still he climbed it.

  He’d never met anyone like Obi-Wan Kenobi.

  That kriffing climb nearly killed me too. But we did it. We made it. And was it all for nothing? Is this the part where we lie down and die?

  Well, to the Hells with that. The crash didn’t kill them. The lightning didn’t kill them. The kriffing ravine didn’t kill them. The Sith?

  They can go to all Nine Hells, too.

  Gently, he lowered Obi-Wan back to the plateau’s stunted grass. Then he staggered to his feet, and it hurt, oh it hurt. How much pain could a body take before i
t said enough?

  Guess I’m going to find out.

  He didn’t want to leave Obi-Wan lying there, exposed and defenseless, but he had to. He couldn’t carry him into the Sith temple, even if he’d had the strength. The kriffing place would probably stop the Jedi’s heart. He was starting to wonder if he had strength left to walk in there himself.

  It doesn’t matter. I have to. And if I can’t walk, I’ll crawl.

  It occurred to him then, in a hazy, distant kind of way, that possibly he was no longer entirely sane himself. Certainly he’d never been in a situation like this before. Never been pushed beyond the bounds of physical endurance, never been so hungry and thirsty, never been so tired. Never been so angry, or afraid. Not even on Alinta’s space station, with blaster bolts exploding at him from every conceivable direction.

  Is this what being in battle is like? Is this what it was like for Padmé on Naboo? On Geonosis? For Obi-Wan on Christophsis? Is this what every Jedi is living through right now? Is this how the clones feel, fighting the Separatists? When I voted for the army, when I voted for war, is this the life I chose for them?

  Because if it was… if it was…

  But he couldn’t afford to think of that now. Couldn’t afford to dwell on buyer’s remorse. Time enough to deal with his choices, with the consequences of his choices, when he was back on Coruscant, in the Senate, where a Senator belonged. Where he could really make a difference.

  Though it hurt his twice-wrenched shoulder like fire, Bail shrugged out of the backpack and dropped it to the ground. Then he squatted and rested his right hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “Wait here, my friend. I’m not leaving. I’m doing what we came for. I’m finding a way to get us off this rock.”

  No answer. Empty-eyed, Obi-Wan stared at the sky.

  Muscles burning, bones grinding, Bail pushed to his feet. Then he turned and faced the Sith temple, properly looking at it for the first time.

  Darkness. That was the overwhelming impression. Darkness and—and crimson. A crimson sheen within the stone. The sheen of old blood, long since spilled and gloated over. Blood of the innocent. Blood of stolen lives.

  Working past that first oppressive impression, he saw the temple wasn’t all that big. It was tall, yes. Tall enough to be seen with inexpensive electrobinoculars, across a large distance, over rocky plain and straggled treetops. Large enough to be seen through the viewport of a crashing ship. Buttressed with stone wings to keep it tall and strong. But though he’d called it a palace, it wasn’t precisely… palatial. It was oblong and windowless and peculiarly restrained. Almost self-effacing. Powerful, yet withdrawn.

  As though it’s hiding its true face. And if that’s not Sith, then I don’t know what is.

  He couldn’t feel a thing from it. Couldn’t hear anything, either. Not a single sad memory stirred… and he had them. Oh, he had them. He remained deaf, dumb, and blind to this place. Its disinterest in him continued.

  For which, given Obi-Wan, I must be profoundly grateful.

  Besides the Sith temple, the plateau was empty. Even more barren than the plateau on which they’d crashed. No trees. No plants of any kind, save the shriveled brown grass. No sign, he realized, of a starship they could fly home. Disappointment shafted. Foolishly, he’d hoped…

  If there was nothing of use to them inside the temple, he and Obi-Wan were about to die lonely, painful, lingering deaths.

  Unless I kill him first, and then kill myself.

  And on that cheerful thought he started walking toward the temple. It occurred to him, in a hazy, light-headed, beyond-the-end-of-his-endurance kind of way, that if the kriffing thing was locked he was going to look like a fool.

  But it wasn’t. The double doors swung open easily, at a touch. And when he crossed the threshold lights came on, dim and glowing and red like the distant nebula in Zigoola’s night sky. As if to say, Welcome, stranger. Enter and be amazed. As if it knew he was nothing to fear.

  These Sith. These kriffing Sith. Who—what—are they?

  There were no stairs inside the temple. No second or third floor. It was one cavernous chamber, like a ballroom for giants. Or a church designed to make mortal men feel small. The air was cool and felt strangely expectant. Tasted slightly metallic. Not quite stale. The floor underfoot was tessellated black and crimson. The design was unsettling, crawling across the eyes. Slithering into the backbrain, invoking misery and loss.

  Bail shivered, and lifted his gaze. The enormous room contained no furniture; no tables, or chairs. Not even a stool. And he couldn’t see the source of the lighting, either; it seemed to ooze from the walls like a marshland miasma.

  As his eyes adjusted to the low lighting he realized there were alcoves built into the walls. He headed left, his footsteps loud in the silence, the dirt and gravel ground into his boot soles sounding gritty and grating. He wondered if he was ruining the intricate mosaic-work and found he didn’t much care.

  The first alcove contained old books. Very old, and leather-bound. Thick, bulky tomes with raised lettering on the spines. Like the floor’s tessellation, they made his skin crawl. He folded his arms, wincing at the burn in his shoulder, and quickly walked by.

  The second alcove was empty, but from it emanated such a chill that he scuttled past like a child told that this house was haunted.

  The third alcove contained chunks of geode, livid green and bile-yellow and dull purple crystals that glowed in the reddish light, unwholesome and diseased.

  Feeling distinctly queasy, he moved to the next alcove. Now he was staring at flickering circuits contained in a large square transparisteel box. It looked vaguely promising, but he wasn’t prepared to pick it up. Did that make him a coward? Maybe, but he was too tired to care.

  The fifth alcove contained a single crystal. The size of a big man’s loose fist, beautifully faceted, and utterly ruined. Before its destruction it had been the deep red of a sun’s heart, but something had blasted it from the inside out, charring and cracking it.

  It was Sith, and so must be evil, yet still he regretted the lost beauty.

  He kept on walking, discovering more and more things. A hand-sized pyramid, not transparisteel but actual glass, dull black and traced with red. No hint of its purpose. More crystals, unshaped chunks of rock, some fist-sized, some as small as eggs, their edges sharp enough to draw blood, colored black and gray and murky dark blue. More books. Data crystals. Ribbon-tied scrolls. It was a Sith treasure trove, surely. If they escaped Zigoola they’d have to take it with them. The Jedi Council would want to study these artifacts. Perhaps they contained information that could bring about this unspeakable enemy’s downfall. Which he would work toward in every way he could. For if he’d learned nothing else on Zigoola, he’d learned that he’d been wrong, and Obi-Wan coldly right. The Sith must be hunted down and destroyed without mercy.

  And he was sure of another thing, too: he didn’t begin to know what item or items among this collection of artifacts would help him and Obi-Wan get off Zigoola before they starved to death. Nor could he tell which one was affecting the Jedi. Probably Obi-Wan could. So he had to come in here. He had to see this for himself.

  If I can reach him. If I can help him come back.

  Abruptly aware he’d been in the temple for a long time, Bail turned away from inspecting the last alcoves and hurried outside to the real world, to make sure Obi-Wan was all right.

  The Jedi hadn’t moved. Hadn’t died. He still lay on his back, eyes open but unresponsive. His torn flesh had stopped bleeding; all the blood on his tunic and leggings was dried stiff and dark red.

  Grunting, aware of every muscle, every joint, Bail eased himself to kneel on one knee beside him, and again touched his shoulder. “Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan. I can’t do this. I’m not a Jedi. You need to come back. You need to do your job.”

  Nothing. Was he even dreaming anymore? It didn’t seem so. He seemed… empty. All his intelligence fled, and the oddly polite, unconscious arrogance with it. The wit, the dry humor. Ju
st a shell left.

  A drift of conversation… a memory to make him smile…

  You know, Bail, it occurs to me you’re wasted in the Senate. With a punch like that you’d make a killing in the ring.

  Sorry. I needed to get your attention.

  Sorry… sorry…

  On a deep, indrawn breath, Bail backhanded Obi-Wan’s face. Once. Twice. Loud, cracking blows that rolled the Jedi’s head on the ground.

  Nothing.

  He couldn’t keep on hitting the man. He might end up doing irreparable damage. Reluctantly, with a rising horror, Bail looked at Obi-Wan’s damaged knee. It was swollen now, the torn flesh puffy and raw. He’d walked on it, climbed on it, but it was possible the patella had been cracked. If he punched it… if he punched it…

  I can’t do that. It’s sick.

  But Obi-Wan had done it, hadn’t he? Used the pain to drown out the Sith’s relentless voice? Used it to spur himself up the ravine?

  He couldn’t punch that injured leg. Couldn’t. But he could lay his hand on it, gently, and maybe—possibly—squeeze…

  Lost in the darkness, lost in despair, Obi-Wan feels his spirit wandering, adrift. Not sundered from his body quite yet, but soon. He has lost the light, and lost his purpose. Someone, somewhere, wants him to die. He wants to deny their desire. But he’s cold. So cold. And then something changes. A point of heat. A point of pain. His body is hurting… and that means he’s alive. Someone is shouting… and the darkness recedes…

  “—wake up, vape you, I can’t keep doing this! Wake up, Obi-Wan! Do you hear me? Wake up!”

  His knee was on fire. Someone was punching it, pinching it, hurting him. With an effort he rolled over and said, “Leave me alone.”

  “Obi-Wan!”

  He dragged his eyes open. Was this a rooftop? Where was Anakin? He’d crashed his citibike, hadn’t he? The Temple transport droid would be displeased. And then he remembered. There was no Anakin. There was only the Sith. He was lying on the cold dirt of Zigoola, and that was Bail Organa’s gaunt, bloodied, and bruised face above him.