The Clone Wars: Wild Space

by Karen Miller

  “I don’t even know how to turn the kriffing thing on.” Obi-Wan held out his hand. “Here.”

  Bail watched him activate the weapon. Watched the mesmerizing blue blade leap from its hilt. Saw the apprehension… the resignation… in Obi-Wan’s sunken eyes.

  Taking the weapon back, he clutched it awkwardly. His hands were sweating. Shaking. His heartbeat boomed in his ears. “What now?”

  “Coordinates,” Obi-Wan whispered.

  Coordinates? Oh. Of course. To the planet. He’d scribbled them on a flimsi before they’d left the starship. Kept the flimsi in his backpack. An act of faith, or wishful thinking? Both. Neither. It was all the same now.

  He fetched it and returned, walking carefully, not daring to run with a lightsaber in his hand. Obi-Wan had stretched himself supine on the dead grass. Zigoola’s sun, sliding down the sky, lay insubstantial shadows over his face. Holding the red-and-black crystal tightly in his left hand, with his right he took the flimsi then lightly touched the tear in his thigh.

  “Here. No point making… new holes. Don’t… stab. Lay the blade… against the wound. Not hard. Not long. I don’t… want to… lose my leg. It’s… a bit far to hop home.”

  He was joking. How could he joke about this? This wasn’t funny. This was dreadful. “Do you want me to—to warn you? Shall I count to three first?”

  Obi-Wan looked at him. “Bail.”

  Oh. Right.

  He did it. An electronic sizzling sound. The sickening smell, mingled, of burning cotton and flesh. Eyes stretched wide, spine arching, Obi-Wan swallowed his distress and tried to send his thoughts through the Sith crystal. After a moment he shook his head.

  “No good. Again.”

  Oh mercy.

  Beyond the boundaries of the Republic, on planets with no moral code, sentients tortured other sentients for power or greed. Sickened by the notion, he’d always wondered how anyone could do it. Deliberately, cold-bloodedly, inflict pain on someone else. Even derive pleasure from it. Or, conversely, feel nothing at all.

  He wanted to vomit. He wanted to weep.

  As the lightsaber burned him a second time, Obi-Wan’s eyes went blank. A frantic pulse beat at the base of his throat. On a deep groan he tried once more to reach the Jedi Temple.

  “No,” he said, teeth gritted. “Again.”

  Dizzy, Bail pressed the back of his hand to his mouth. This is it. This is the last time. I’m not doing this anymore.

  And to make certain, absolutely certain, he took a deep breath… and put some weight behind the bright blue blade.

  The voice came through so faintly that at first Yoda, sunk deep in meditation, thought he’d imagined it. Thought he was dreaming, or committing the grave error of aimless hoping. He’d been waiting so long, with no answers, and had begun to fear the worst.

  Then he heard it again, stronger. Vivid with pain… and stained with darkness. Obi-Wan’s voice… his thoughts… unmistakable. Yet somehow the dark side was threaded through his Force presence. Yoda rarely admitted to alarm… but the bitter taste of Sith in their communication was a legitimate cause for apprehension. The echo of another, virulent voice… die Jedi, die Jedi.

  Pushing the malevolence to one side, he descended more deeply than until this moment he’d ever dared to go, opening himself until he was virtually defenseless. Obi-Wan’s thoughts poured into him, a desperate babble, as though he was terrified he could not maintain the connection. The intricacy of the details he imparted was as worrying as his fear, and that taste of the dark side; telepathy was hardly ever so precise. Feelings, impressions, yes. But pinpoint-accurate galactic coordinates? Precisely ordered requests? No. This communication was unwholesome. To the light side, abomination.

  Then as suddenly as he’d made contact, Obi-Wan vanished. Not in death, but as though a holotransceiver circuit had fused.

  Heedless of the late hour, Yoda woke Mace Windu.

  “And you’re sure it was Obi-Wan?” said Mace, after listening in focused silence.

  Yoda nodded. “Yes.”

  Wrapped in a sleep shift, Mace slid off the end of his bed and paced to his window, where the night-lights of Coruscant played over his stern face. “Are you going to do what he asks?”

  “No choice do I have. More Jedi we cannot risk. A death trap this Zigoola is.”

  “Yes,” said Mace, turning. “But set by whom? Dooku? Or this mysterious Darth Sidious?”

  “When attacks on the Jedi the Sith make, one is as the other. Important only is that they have failed.”

  “This time,” said Mace.

  They stared at each other, starkly aware of the dark side, creeping closer.

  “To ourselves we should keep this,” said Yoda, at last. “Until more we understand.”

  Mace nodded. “Agreed.” Then he sighed. “You’ll see her now?”

  “I will,” said Yoda. “For time to waste we do not have.”

  Slowly, reluctantly, he groped his way back to consciousness, guided by a familiar, urgent voice.

  “Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan, did it work?”

  He cleared his throat. The pain in his leg had reached obscene proportions. It was so appalling, so obliterating, really the only thing he could do was laugh.

  “Obi-Wan!”

  Oh dear. Poor Bail. He sounded quite cross. With an effort, he smothered hysteria and opened his eyes. “Yes,” he said, his voice terribly altered. “It worked. Help is coming.”

  Bail swayed where he stood, then sat down, abruptly. “Here,” he said, and almost threw the deactivated lightsaber at him. “Take this. Take it.”

  Moving only stoked the pain to newer, fiercer heights, but that was his lightsaber. He wrapped his fingers around its cool metal hilt. Felt the peace that came from being whole again.

  Bail stared, his face haggard. “How long till we’re rescued?”

  “I don’t know. A few days.”

  “A few days,” Bail echoed. “We’ve got the supplies, if we’re careful. But can you last that long?”

  What an interesting question. A shame his only answer was another I don’t know. “Perhaps.”

  “Perhaps?” Now Bail sounded offended. “What the varp do you mean, perhaps? I haven’t gone through all this to watch you die now, Master Jedi. You’re not going anywhere, do I make myself clear?”

  Whispering, taunting, the persistent voice of the Sith, making itself heard even through all his bright pain.

  Die Jedi, die Jedi, die Jedi, die.

  “Senator Organa, it might not be up to you.”

  Bail looked at the red-and-black crystal, tumbled onto the dry ground. “Are you absolutely certain you got through to Master Yoda?”

  “Yes,” he said, remembering the touch of that ancient, disciplined, desperately sought intelligence. Feeling again the overwhelming relief.

  “Then we don’t need this kriffing thing anymore,” said Bail, and snatched up the Sith’s telepathic device.

  Enervated, incapable of protesting or stopping the man even if he’d wanted to, Obi-Wan watched as Bail smashed the Sith crystal to powder between two slabs of collapsed temple stone.

  The Sith’s whispering fell silent, and even though the dark side still oppressed him… for the first time in days… in what felt like years… he was alone in his own mind. The relief of that reduced him to brief tears.

  “Hey—hey!”

  Bail again, alarmed. Squatting on his heels beside him, one hand on his shoulder. A warm, dependable, improbable presence.

  Blinking away weakness, he made himself look at the Senator from Alderaan. Saw clearly, for the first time, what he’d asked the man to do. The price Bail had paid for the courage of his convictions.

  Something of what he was feeling must have shown in his face.

  “Don’t,” said Bail roughly. “It doesn’t matter. We survived. The rest of it’s nothing. Less than nothing. Just one more war story. The point is we won.”

  Was this what victory felt like?

  May the Force
spare me another victory like this.

  “Hey,” Bail said again. “How are you, Obi-Wan? Really?”

  “Really?” Beneath his aching bones, the hard cold dirt of Zigoola. In his battered body, a fire that would not go out. “Really, Bail, I hurt quite a lot.”

  Bail shook his head. “Thought so.”

  “But it’s better than being dead.”

  “Yeah,” Bail said softly, and a slow smile spread across his thin, filthy face. “Yeah, you can say that again.” The smile faded. “So. No more voices?”

  “No.”

  “No more visions?”

  “No.”

  “Then let’s see what we can do about the pain. I’ve got drugs in the first-aid kit. Just don’t argue with me, all right? I know where I can lay my hands on a lightsaber, and I’m not afraid to use it.”

  Obi-Wan looked at him. Anything he said would sound trite. Sentimental. Anything he said would only embarrass them both.

  “Don’t go anywhere, Master Kenobi,” said Bail, patting his shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”

  As the Senator from Alderaan withdrew to fetch the medkit, Obi-Wan let his eyes drift closed. For so many reasons, a Jedi’s life was lived mostly solitary. For so many reasons, it was better that way. But sometimes… sometimes… they could make an exception. Sometimes… unexpectedly… they could make a new friend.

  First Padmé, now Bail Organa. It appears I’m collecting politicians. Who would have thought it? Life is very strange.

  Of all the beings she might reasonably expect to find in her living room at almost half past three in the morning, Jedi Master Yoda was at the bottom of the list.

  Stunned silent, Padmé stared down at him. Only her years in public service saved her from betraying alarm. Can it be Anakin? No. Why would he come to me for Anakin? It must be Bail and Obi-Wan. They’ve been gone so long now. Much longer than I thought. She’d been covering for Bail in the Security Committee, but her excuses on his behalf were starting to wear thin. And she’d been getting more and more anxious…

  Belatedly, she remembered her manners. “Can I offer you refreshments, Master Yoda? Threepio—”

  “Thank you, no,” said Yoda, and raised a hand to the droid. “Regret this intrusion I do, Senator Amidala, but on urgent business have I come.”

  “I gathered as much, Master Yoda, given the hour,” she said, carefully noncommittal. Determined not to ask questions, but to see what he was willing to volunteer.

  “A favor I would ask of you, Senator. Should you agree, in your debt would the Jedi Order be.”

  She pulled her robe a little closer to her body and sat on the nearest chair. “There can never be talk of debts between us, Master Yoda. What do you need me to do?”

  Yoda leaned on his gimer stick. She thought he looked very tired. And at close to nine hundred years old, she supposed he had a right to be. “Word have I received from Obi-Wan Kenobi. Stranded is he with Senator Organa, on a planet called Zigoola.”

  For a moment she felt light-headed with relief. “They’re all right?”

  “They live,” said Yoda. “But they have no ship, and send a Jedi to rescue them I cannot.”

  Relief chilled into foreboding. “Because it’s a Sith planet?”

  “Hmmm,” said Yoda, his eyes narrowing. “Well informed you are, Senator.”

  “In this instance,” she said calmly, refusing to be intimidated. “I take it you’d like me to fetch them, Master Yoda?”

  And that put paid to his flinty disapproval. “Yes,” he said, abruptly subdued. “The reason for my visit, that is. To ask for your assistance in this sensitive matter.”

  “Of course I’ll assist you,” she replied. “Always. Whenever and however I can.”

  Some great weight seemed to lift from his shoulders then. “In danger from the Sith you will not be, Senator Amidala. Deserted the planet is, save for Master Kenobi and Senator Organa.”

  Good. She’d had enough Sith to last her a lifetime.

  “However,” Yoda added, “clone troops will I send with you. In Wild Space is Zigoola. A dangerous destination, and from home a long way.”

  Wild Space? Wait till Anakin heard about this. She pulled a face. “It can’t be more dangerous than Geonosis, Master Yoda.”

  “Independent you are, Senator, this I know well,” said Yoda, severely. “But take the clone troops with you, you must. Unarmed is your private yacht. Protected you must be.”

  Anakin would say the same thing, if he were here. If she flew off into Wild Space without any kind of military escort he’d be furious… and worry about her even more when he was away fighting the Separatists, and the Sith.

  The last thing I want to do is add to his burdens.

  “Of course, Master Yoda,” she said, and stood. “The Royal Yacht’s one of the fastest ships on Coruscant, and it’s ready to fly at a moment’s notice. At top speed the clones and I will be there before Bail and Master Kenobi know it. Do you have the coordinates?”

  Yoda took a data crystal from his pocket and held it out. “Plotted on here the fastest course is, Senator. Follow it, and avoid trouble with the Separatists you will. Also on it are life-sign signatures for Master Kenobi and Senator Organa. Easy will that make finding them, I think. The clone troops I will send at once to your private spaceport.”

  Anakin was wary of this ancient Jedi. For herself, she often found him obscure and aloof. But she had the knack of reading people… and in his eyes now she saw such worry. After what she’d seen in the cavern on Geonosis, she knew Obi-Wan held a special place in his heart… though doubtless he’d deny it until he drew his last breath. The Jedi, and their disdain for attachment.

  “Master Yoda,” she said, taking the data crystal, “I will bring Obi-Wan home to you, safe and well. On that you have my solemn word.”

  To her surprise he took her hand in his, and held it. “Thank you, Padmé. Upon me you must call if ever a service for you I can perform.”

  If he knew how she and Anakin were deceiving him, he wouldn’t be grateful. He’d be furious. Somehow she managed a smile. “I’ll remember that, Master Yoda.”

  After he left she got C-3PO to warn the spaceport to expect her and the clone detachment while she dragged on a flight suit, tossed some spare clothes in one bag and stuffed another full of official datapads, then sent a time-delayed message to her Senate office, logging a personal business absence.

  Threepio was hovering anxiously by the apartment’s front door. “Oh dear, milady. I’m afraid this sounds very dangerous. I do hope they’re all right. I hope you’ll be all right. Wild Space? This whole business sounds most alarming.”

  Chances were that alarming was only the beginning. Obi-Wan. Bail. What have you been up to? But there was no point encouraging the droid to fuss. “I’ll be fine, Threepio. You heard Master Yoda. I’ll have clone troops watching my back every minute I’m gone.” She patted his golden shoulder. “You take care of things here, and I’ll see you again when I return. All right?”

  “Oh yes, yes, milady,” said 3PO. “Don’t you worry about a thing.”

  He might as well have told her not to breathe.

  “I won’t,” she said, hefted her travel bags, and took her apartment complex’s swift-tube to the parking bay and her private speeder.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  As promised, the detachment of clone troops was waiting for her at the spaceport, heavily and reassuringly armed. Five soldiers and their leader, disconcertingly alike.

  But only on the outside, she reminded herself. On the inside, they are themselves.

  “Senator!” said their commander, saluting, bulky helmet neatly tucked under his arm. “Captain Korbel, reporting.”

  She didn’t recognize his insignia. All she knew was they weren’t from Anakin’s company, the doughty 501st. “Captain. I’m pleased to meet you,” she said. “And most appreciative of your help. I take it you’ve been fully briefed by Master Yoda?”

  Korbel nodded. “Certainly hav
e, Senator. We’re all of us fully medic-trained, so that won’t be a problem. We’ll take good care of the general and Senator Organa.”

  She felt a punch of adrenaline burn through her blood. “I’m sorry. Medic-trained? I wasn’t—I don’t understand. Are you saying they’re injured?”

  “Oh,” said the captain. Despite his rigorous training, concern touched his intense black eyes. “I thought you’d been fully briefed as well, ma’am.”

  “Apparently not,” she said. “But that’s no matter. Master Yoda was tired, and doubtless distracted.” Or else, just as Anakin complained, he very rarely stopped to think about trivialities, like feelings. “Let’s get on board, shall we? It seems we have no time to waste.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Korbel. He collected his men with another nod.

  Thank you so much, Yoda, she thought as she hurried to her sleek, swift starship. Let’s just hope there are no more surprises.

  Unnerved by the worry she’d seen in Yoda’s eyes, dismayed by what Captain Korbel had told her, once they cleared Coruscant she poured on the speed and the yacht ate up the parsecs between home and Zigoola. If she’d been flying for any other reason than rescue, perhaps she’d have found herself excited by the prospect of leaving the Republic behind, the Outer Rim behind, and flirting with unknown, exotic Wild Space. Even if her destination was a Sith planet. But instead of excitement, all she could feel was apprehension. Bail and Obi-Wan injured?

  Whatever happened, it must have been bad.

  Captain Korbel and his men kept their professional, polite distance. Taking care of themselves, and her, too, with an efficiency that could only be admired. Korbel had been most complimentary about the yacht’s medbay.

  I wish I found that less alarming.

  To distract herself, and because she didn’t dare let herself fall behind, she plunged into the Senate work she’d brought with her. The course the Jedi had plotted for her was flawless. They didn’t encounter a skerrick of trouble: no Separatists, no pirates, nothing to hinder their speed.

  When at last the nav comp announced their arrival at Zigoola, and she dropped the ship out of hyperspace, she barely looked at the planet or the raging nebula behind it. Felt no excitement at the exotic location, just a pounding drive to find them find them find them.