About the Book
About the Author
Also by Karen Miller
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
The Star Wars Novels Timeline
Dramatis Personae
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
Copyright
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Version 1.0
Epub ISBN 9781446474372
www.randomhouse.co.uk
Published in the United Kingdom by Arrow Books in 2011
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Copyright © Lucasfilm Ltd. & ® or ™ where indicated 2010
Karen Miller has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
First published in the United Kingdom in 2010 by Century
Arrow Books
The Random House Group Limited
20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London SW1V 2SA
Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm
The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009
www.starwars.com
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9780099533238
Stories make the world go round.
This is for everyone who ever loved a story.
ALSO BY KAREN MILLER
STAR WARS®: Clone Wars Gambit: Stealth
STAR WARS®: The Clone Wars™: Wild Space
The Innocent Mage
The Awakened Mage
The Prodigal Mage
Empress
The Riven Kingdom
Hammer of God
Stargate SG1: Alliances
Stargate SG1: Do No Harm
The Accidental Sorcerer
Witches Incorporated
George Lucas, as always, for his great gift.
Shelly Shapiro, for her patience and guidance.
Sue Rostoni, for believing.
Karen Traviss, for getting me involved in the first place.
Mary GT Webber and Jason Fry, for their invaluable feedback.
Everyone behind the scenes at Del Rey and Lucasfilm, who work so hard to support the Star Wars authors.
The fans, who keep the flame burning bright.
Richard Errington, who won the Star Wars Charity auction to raise money for the victims of the Victorian Black Saturday bushfires in 2009. Thanks, mate. You really made a difference.
Ahsoka Tano; Jedi Padawan (Togruta female)
Anakin Skywalker; Jedi Knight (human male)
Bail Organa; Senator from Alderaan (human male)
Bant’ena Fhernan; scientist first level (human female)
Greti; child (Lanteeban female)
Jaklin; teacher (Lanteeban female)
Lok Durd; Separatist general (Neimoidian male)
Obi-Wan Kenobi; Jedi Knight (human male)
Padmé Amidala; Senator from Naboo (human female)
Palpatine; Supreme Chancellor of the Republic (human male)
Rikkard; head miner (Lanteeban male)
Taria Damsin; Jedi Master (human female)
Tryn Netzl; biochemist (human male)
Yoda; Grand Master of the Jedi Order (nonhuman male)
ANAKIN COULDN’T BELIEVE IT.
More than three standard hours—really, closer to four—since their desperate escape from Lok Durd’s droid army and they were still flying instead of falling. What a shame Obi-Wan wasn’t awake—he was in the mood for a little not-undeserved boasting. But despite putting up a strong fight Obi-Wan had succumbed to sleep nearly two hours earlier. In the groundcar’s dim console light his mentor looked washed out. Burned out, or close enough. Their last-stand battle in the Sep compound had taken him to the edge of endurance and then pushed him right over.
Good thing I’m the Chosen One or we might be in trouble.
Well. More trouble. Another glance at their stolen vehicle’s power-cell readout sent his spirits into a swift downward spiral. If they were lucky—ha—they had roughly one more hour of propulsion remaining. And after that …
The Lanteeb night continued thick and dark around them. To conserve their precious power—and remain hidden from prying eyes—he hadn’t turned on the rigged groundcar’s headlights, trusting instead to his instincts and the Force. And so far so good. Neither had steered him wrong. It was Obi-Wan’s decision to get them as far away from the city as possible before ditching their makeshift speeder, and since he didn’t disagree with that strategy it was exactly what they’d done. With the city falling farther and farther behind them, together they’d stretched their overstretched senses, trying to determine the best direction to take. To find safety, or what might pass for it, on what had without warning become the most hostile of worlds.
Bant’ena.
The kidnapped scientist’s betrayal was just one more pain, burning in chorus with the others. At least, that was what he tried to tell himself. But really, it was a lie. That particular pain burned brighter than all the others combined.
Bant’ena, how could you do it? I trusted you. I tried to save you.
Slumped beside him in the passenger seat, Obi-Wan stirred. “Don’t,” he said, his voice slurry. “What’s done is done, Anakin. Let it go. Now—how are your engine modifications holding up?”
“We’re still flying.”
“True,” Obi-Wan conceded. “And for that I sincerely thank you. But it seems to me there’s a rough note sounding in the primary coolant valve.”
Stang. Trust Obi-Wan to notice. “It’s fine. It’ll hold.”
“If you say so.” With a stifled curse, Obi-Wan sat up. “Anyway. Where are we?”
Anakin sighed. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No, not really,” Obi-Wan said, then smothered a yawn. “How long have I been sleeping?”
“Oh, you know,” he said vaguely. “Not that long.”
“Anakin.” Obi-Wan glared. “I am not a decrepit relic.”
Oooh. Sticky ground. “I didn’t say you were. But Rex says a smart soldier eats and sleeps every chance he gets. You want to argue with someone, argue with him. I’m just following his advice.”
“Well, now you can follow my advice,” Obi-Wan snapped. “That’s twice on this mission you’ve conspired to stay awake while I slept. Do it a third time and there will be repercussions.”
Repercussions or not, he’d do it as many times as he had to—but that was a fight for another time and place. To keep the peace here and now, he nodded. “Whatever you say.”
And that earned him another sharp look—but sharp looks he could live with.
Obi-Wan raked his fingers through his hair. “How many more villages have we bypassed?”
“Since you fell asleep? Two. They didn’t feel right, so I kept going.”
“Good,” said Obi-Wan. “Let your feelings guide you, Anakin, and you won’t go far wrong.” He muffled another yawn. “But even so, I think circumstances are going to force our hand soon enough. No pun intended.”
“You’re right,” he said, and tapped a finger to the power cell’s readout. “We’re just about flying on fumes. How much longer do you want to keep pushing our luck?”
“Until we hear it scream for mercy,” said Obi-Wan, frowning. “I know we’ve already traveled a good distance from Lantibba City but right now there’s no such thing as too far.”
Actually, I’m starting to wonder about that. “I don’t know. We’ve got a long hike back to the ship as it is. Assuming it’s still there, and some spaceport official hasn’t impounded it. Maybe we should be thinking about—”
“I am thinking about it,” said Obi-Wan, testy. “Now hush a moment. I’d like to get a sense of who and what’s ahead.”
Even tired to the bone, Obi-Wan used the Force the way a surgeon used a laser scalpel, neatly and cleanly cleaving his way through the night.
“There,” he murmured, eventually. “Can you feel that?”
Anakin nodded. “That’s the largest village we’ve sensed so far, I think.”
“And there’s safety in numbers,” said Obi-Wan, opening his eyes. “I don’t feel any immediate danger surrounding the place, do you?”
He was already angling the groundcar in the distant village’s direction. “No.”
Ominously, the controls were feeling sluggishly heavy now, less responsive than ever. Without warning the vehicle lurched, then dropped. Cursing, he wrestled it back under control.
“Blast,” said Obi-Wan, checking the power-cell indicator. “Are you sure this gauge is accurate, Anakin?”
Teeth gritted, arms aching, he fought the groundcar against another precipitate plunge. “Depends what you mean by accurate. And sure.”
A third lurching drop, then a stomach-churning sideways twist as their makeshift speeder tried to fishtail its way through the night. Obi-Wan grabbed the passenger-door handle. “So is this the point where we start falling instead of flying?”
He hated to admit it, but— “Yeah. I think it is.”
“Wonderful,” Obi-Wan muttered. And then he sighed. “Well, at least turn on the headlights. It seems a pity not to see death rushing to meet us.”
“Pessimist,” Anakin said, fiercely grinning, and flooded the endless dark with light. “Now hold on, Master Kenobi. Things are about to get a little bit interesting.”
ANAKIN WAS A BRILLIANT PILOT, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t use some help. Ignoring his leaden exhaustion, the warning ache in his bones, and the drag in his blood, for the second time that night Obi-Wan discarded prudent self-preservation and abandoned himself without reservation to the Force. Its power howled through him, setting his nerves alight. And howling with the power was the starkest of warnings: Danger ahead, Jedi. Danger all around.
Sweating and swearing, Anakin fought the crippled, dying groundcar. They were down to the dregs of its power cell now, encased in a shell of unresponsive metal. The headlights were fading fast and with them any hope of making some kind of informed landing. Darkness poised to swallow them. Death, too, if they didn’t find a way to control their out-of-control descent.
I may be a pessimist but it’s not without cause.
And then the groundcar’s shielding gave out in a defiant spray of sparks, like fireworks.
There. You see? Wonderful.
“Sorry,” said Anakin, his fingers bloodless on the stricken vehicle’s control yoke. “I thought we had a bit more juice left than this.”
Obi-Wan managed an encouraging smile. “Never mind. You’re doing fine. Just—”
With an ominous grumbling of stressed metal joints the groundcar’s nose dropped, sending them into a sharp dive. On a desperate gasp he wrapped the Force around them, swaddling the groundcar as once he’d swaddled Bail’s starship coming in powerless to a space station dock. Except this time was different. It might’ve handled like a flying brick but at least Bail’s small ship had been in a controlled glide. Their improbably rigged-up groundcar was falling like a brick. And when bricks hit the ground from a great height they had the disconcerting habit of smashing to splinters and shards.
“Okay!” Anakin panted. “You’ve got it. Hold it there, Obi-Wan. If you can just hold the barve right there I can—”
“Forget it, Anakin. This thing is past flying. All we can do now is cushion the blow.”
“No—no—I’ve still got it. I can do this. Just hold on to it, Obi-Wan—don’t let go of the blasted thing, whatever you do!”
If it had been anyone other than Anakin … but it was Anakin, so Obi-Wan poured his will into cradling the machine as his former apprentice bullied it into cooperating. The console lighting failed next—and then last of all the headlights. In the moment they winked out he caught a final glimpse of the onrushing tree-scattered ground. Heard a curdling scrape of high branches along the groundcar’s belly.
And then the groundcar’s power cell died.
“Anakin?” He tore his gaze from the unshielded wind-screen. “We’re out of time.”
No need to talk about it. In perfect, familiar unison they flung themselves into an active trance, imposing the Force upon the unresponsive groundcar and flattening their lethally steep trajectory. Amid loud crashing and splintering the groundcar blundered through the pitch-dark countryside’s clustered treetops, then struck one broad trunk hard and slewed wildly sideways. Blood swirling, their vision blotched and smeared, they used up what was left of their meager strength, keeping the Force wrapped close around the groundcar. It was the only thing standing between themselves and a bloody death.
And then they struck Lanteeban soil, skipping over the open ground like a stone across a flat pond. The noise was ferocious. Metal sheared and screamed and buckled and tore. They hit something unyielding, a rock or a felled tree, maybe the lip of a culvert, that flipped them into a crazy sideways roll. With the power cell drained dry, the expensive groundcar’s auto restraints couldn’t engage. Pebbles in a bottle, they rattled around and around and around.
At last, with one final roll and a rending shriek of stressed durasteel, their pulverized vehicle slammed right-side up and rocked to a halt. Stunned, his head still spinning, Obi-Wan sat in silence and breathed, just breathed, and waited for his pounding heartbeat to subside.
We’re alive. Who’d believe it? We must be better than I thought.
His ears were ringing. He could taste blood in his mouth and feel it on his face and arms and legs. On his sweaty skin he felt the caress of fresh night air, flowing in through the ragged tears in the groundcar’s metal shell. It smelled cold and clean. No taint of habitation, sentient or otherwise. He couldn’t see a thing through the cracked windscreen but wherever they were, the village he and Anakin had felt through the Force was klicks and klicks away. Wonderful. Because there was nothing he liked better than tramping through an unknown wilderness in the dark. All that was missing now was a Sith Holocron.
I swear, the next time Bail Organa says he’s got intelligence for me to look at I really will throw him out of his speeder.
Equally stunned, Anakin slumped in the driver’s seat. And then he laughed, sounding almost giddy with relief.
“So—Obi-Wan—what is it with you and crash landings, anyway?”
“Aren’t you the one who said every man should have a hobby?”
“Me? No,” said Anakin. “Sorry. Must’ve been one of your other former Padawans.” Another giddy laugh. “Seriously, Obi-Wan. So far you’ve accounted for a speeder bike, a starship, and now a groundcar. If you’re not careful you’re going to get a reputation.”
Since he was hurting too much to even contemplate moving, and they were in no danger of bursting into flames, Obi-Wan let his aching head rest against the back of the crumpled passenger seat and gave himself permission to indulge.
“I reject your hypothesis,” he said, deliberately prim. “I did not wreck the speeder bike, it was blown up by a bomb. And the Sith crashed Bail’s starship, not me. As for this groundcar, well, technically speaking I’m merely a passenger. So clearly I bear no responsibility at all.”
Anakin’s amusement flared brighter. “Admit it. You’re a common denominator, Master Kenobi.”
“Alas. That is sad but true,” he agreed. “Perhaps I should smuggle myself onto Grievous’s flagship. After all, what’s the point in having the mystical power to crash flying machines if one isn’t prepared to use it in a good cause?”
“Now that’s a plan,” said Anakin. “I’ll remind you to suggest it to the Council when we get home.”
When we get home. Amusement fading, Obi-Wan closed his eyes. Yes. Getting home. Having survived Lok Durd’s ambush, that was their next challenge—which they wouldn’t conquer by sitting around in the dark.
Step one: exit the groundcar.
Warily, holding his breath, he shifted a little in his battered seat. There was pain, but no grinding of bones. No sudden gush of blood. Thank the Force for minor miracles.
“We need to get out of here. Are you still in one piece?”
“I think so,” said Anakin. “You?”
“Apparently.”
A soft snort. “In that case maybe we should go find ourselves a casino.”
“I’ll settle for a humble cottage and some friendly native faces.” Still moving cautiously, he tested the passenger door. “I’m trapped on this side. Can you get out on yours?”
A rustling of clothes and a muttered curse as Anakin tried his own door. “No,” he said, giving up. “Hold on.”
The darkness disappeared in a flash of blue light as Anakin activated his lightsaber.
Obi-Wan flattened himself against the passenger door. “Watch out! You’ll be cutting me in half with that thing if you’re not careful!”
Anakin tut-tutted. “Now, would I do that? Shield your eyes. There’s going to be dripping metal any second.”
Slowly, carefully, cursing their groundcar’s cramped interior and the droplets of slagged durasteel he didn’t manage to avoid, Anakin cut through the buckled roof, then used the Force to peel back the scarlet-edged sheet of metal.
His own skin stinging from a scattering of pinprick burns, Obi-Wan nodded. “Good. Now let’s get out of this tin coffin, shall we? I’ll go first.”
For once, Anakin didn’t argue.
Clambering clear of the groundcar woke every last bruise and scrape and blaster-bolt burn on his body. Letting the sharp discomfort ride him unopposed, standing free and clear of the smashed vehicle, Obi-Wan tipped his face to the moonless night and breathed out his shuddering relief. Then he sought for any immediate danger in the Force—and felt nothing. But was that because there was nothing, or because his reserves of strength were too depleted for him to tell?
On a slow surge of Force propulsion Anakin leapt from the groundcar to land unsteadily beside him. “I think we’re safe for now, Obi-Wan.”
He shook his head. “Hardly. The Separatists’ disarray won’t have lasted very long. There’ll be droids on our tail soon, if they’re not hunting us already. And you don’t need a casino to bet on that.”
“Sure, they’ll send droids after us,” said Anakin, unconvinced. “Without the first idea of what direction we took. They’re flying blind, Obi-Wan. The odds of them finding us straightaway—or at all—are—”
“And if Durd turns to Dooku for help?”
“Durd’s not going to tell Dooku about us,” said Anakin, scoffing. “He’s going to keep this quiet. If he doesn’t, he risks getting his head handed to him.”
“Possibly, but we can’t assume that,” Obi-Wan retorted. “We can’t assume anything. Mind yourself. In our situation overconfidence could easily prove fatal.”
Anakin’s impatient irritation seethed through the Force. “Maybe. But second-guessing ourselves could get us killed just as fast. So could a lack of conviction and being timid instead of—”
“Timid? Who said anything about being timid?” He took a deep, painful breath. Stay calm. You know what he’s like. “I’m saying we should be prudent, Anakin. There is a time for bold action and a time for reasoned caution and under the circumstances I think caution is called for.”
Silence. And then Anakin sighed softly. “Yes. It is. So what do you want to do?”
“Well …” He scratched his beard, considering their tediously limited options. “You’re not wrong about the odds being in our favor, at least for the moment. I say we lengthen them by hiding the groundcar, then getting to that village we were aiming for.”
“On foot?” Anakin heaved another sigh. “Yeah. Great. Because I was only just thinking that what I really need right now is blisters.”
Oh, Anakin. “Cheer up. Things could always be worse.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Anakin. “Weren’t you listening? Blisters.”
Truly, their situation was anything but funny, but still—he had to laugh. Anakin’s irrepressibly irreverent humor was one of his most endearing traits.
“Come on,” he said. “That groundcar isn’t going to hide itself.”
Once more working in wordless tandem they used the Force to lift and shift and drop and lift and shift and drop the mangled vehicle back to the straggle of trees they’d crashed through on their descent. The task proved brutally hard. They were both so tired and knocked about, and even Anakin’s intimidating powers weren’t limitless. But they had no choice.
Done at last, bent over with his hands braced on his knees, his breathing harsh and fast, Anakin glanced up. “I don’t know if this is good enough. Wrecked or not, the kriffing thing still looks like a groundcar and there’s not enough cover here to hide it from a passing spy droid.”
Obi-Wan leaned against a handy tree trunk. There wasn’t a finger’s-width of flesh and bone in his body that didn’t hurt. “I know.”
Gingerly, Anakin straightened. “We’ll have to cut it up. Small pieces. Then we’ll need to scatter them. Spread dirt over them afterward so they don’t catch the light.”
Anakin’s endless resourcefulness never ceased to impress him. “Good idea. And speaking of light …”
At the far edge of the horizon a thin bright line was spreading like spilled plasma. Dawn. If they were going to do this they’d have to hurry. There was no telling how many spy droids were out looking for them, or how long it would take one to stumble on to their crash site. So they took out their lightsabers and dismembered the groundcar, hacking and slicing it into piles of scrap metal. After that they used the Force to scatter and camouflage the pieces.
And after that, spy droids or no spy droids, they both collapsed to the inhospitable ground.
“Wake me up this time next year,” Anakin muttered, sprawled full length, eyes closed in his filthy, blood-smeared face.
Slumped cross-legged on leaf litter and small stones, Obi-Wan pressed his fingers to his aching temples. “I wish I could. But we can’t stay here, Anakin.”
“I know.” Anakin sighed. The growing light showed a deep cut on his forehead and a blackish purple bruise on his cheek. His humble Lanteeban work clothes were badly stained and torn, and he looked to be favoring his right shoulder. There was a scorch mark along his side where he’d been clipped by a blaster bolt. “Just—” He cracked open one eyelid. “Let me catch my breath.”
Anakin never admitted exhaustion. Concerned, Obi-Wan stared at him. I don’t think he’s been this pushed since Maridun. “Yes. All right. A few minutes. But then we must go.”
A Jedi was taught from earliest childhood that the Force was to be used but never abused. And that used judiciously it would grant a feeling of well-being. Of buoyant energy. That it would replenish and nourish and gently nurture.
Of course, the key word is judiciously. Anakin and I, on the other hand …
He felt like he was ripping apart, in slow motion. The Force was never meant to be used the way they’d been using it these past few days. These past months. Ever since the war began, in fact.
Bail’s right. We’re flesh and blood, not machines. We can’t keep doing this. One day the price will be simply too high to pay.
“Hey,” said Anakin. “You all right?”
Obi-Wan straightened his spine, wincing. “Truthfully? I’ve been better. Anakin …”
“Yeah, I know,” said Anakin, resigned. “We’ve got to go.” He pulled up his knees. “Stang. My bruises have bruises.”
“As have mine,” Obi-Wan said, allowing sympathy to show. “But we’ll feel better once we’re moving again.”
“Yeah …” Anakin looked at him. “So who was it exactly nicknamed you the Negotiator? Because from where I’m lying you couldn’t sell water to a man dying of thirst.”
He smiled. “Ouch.”
“Sorry,” Anakin muttered. “But right now the only thing that would make me feel better is—”
“What?”
“Lok Durd’s head on a plate.”
Was it his imagination or had Anakin meant to say something different? It was hard to tell; he’d covered his eyes with his forearm.
“We will get him, Anakin,” he said quietly. “General Durd’s days are numbered.”
“Everyone’s days are numbered, Obi-Wan,” Anakin retorted. “Not even Yoda’s going to live forever. The point is, we blew it. I blew it. I trusted Bant’ena—I pushed you into trusting her, too—and now look where we are.” Sitting up, he rubbed his hand over his face. “We should’ve taken out the lab while we had the chance. Blown that blasted bioweapon to smoke and debris.”
It hurt to hear him this disillusioned and full of self-blame. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Anakin. You followed your feelings. You argued for what you thought was best. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“No?” Anakin’s eyes were bloodshot with weariness and strain. “Obi-Wan, trusting that woman nearly got us killed. You were right. She reminded me of my mother and I let that blind me. I’m sorry.”
Anakin was a proud young man who hated to admit fault. But the point was he did admit it. Maybe not straightaway—often not straightaway—but still …
Late is always better than never.
He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter now. What matters is that this mission isn’t over. If we act swiftly, I believe we can still thwart Durd before he can use that weapon. There’s even a chance we can recapture him.”
Eyebrows raised, Anakin looked around them. They really were in the middle of nowhere. No birdsong. No speeders. No groundcars. No sense of even the most rudimentary, partially sentient life nearby. The silence was absolute. Only on the farthest edge of awareness, a whispered hint of the village they’d been trying to reach. They had no food, no water, no communications, no transport. No weapons, beside their lightsabers. No allies. No backup of any kind.
“Yes. Well,” he added. “I didn’t say it would be easy.”
Anakin pulled a face. “No kidding.” Then he fumbled to his feet and looked down. “Obi-Wan, we’re in so much trouble.”
“I know.”
“But a solution is bound to present itself? Maybe. Except one of these days that’s just not going to happen.” Anakin held out his hand. “You do know that, right?”
Obi-Wan wrapped his skinned fingers around Anakin’s wrist and levered himself off the ground. “Yes. But it won’t be today.”
For the briefest moment Anakin wasn’t General Skywalker, the Chosen One, scourge of the Separatists and hero of the Republic. He was instead the small boy who’d looked for reassurance from a stranger on the night of Qui-Gon’s funeral.
“Promise?”
Obi-Wan patted his former apprentice’s undamaged shoulder. “Promise. Now let’s go.”
KEEPING UP A STEADY PACE, eventually they came to the end of barren, uncultivated countryside and discovered a ferrocrete road, narrow but well maintained. No traffic in either direction. The Force prompted them to turn left, so they turned left and kept walking. The almost treeless landscape was sere, its sparse vegetation crinkled brown and thirsty. The intel provided by Special Ops Brigade Agent Varrak had mentioned drought, and here was the proof. Once these had been crop fields, but no crops grew here now. Scatterings of bleached bones and strips of desiccated hide suggested farm animals long since perished. Hinted at a prosperity lost, perhaps forever. Especially if Lanteeb could not be freed from Dooku. From the Sith.
An hour passed. Another. And another. The sun crawled higher in the pale and cloudless sky, and the flat land around them gradually began to fall and rise in frozen ripples. Unnervingly aware of their ongoing danger, they told and retold their false life stories and quizzed each other on them until their recitations were faultless. They had to be. Weary as they were, they might have misread the Force. There could be a Separatist presence in the village, and if that was the case their first mistake would likely be their last.
“All right,” Obi-Wan said eventually. “Enough. I doubt we’ll forget our new histories in a hurry.”
“No,” Anakin agreed. “I’m pretty sure I’ll be dreaming about Teeb Markl when I’m ninety.”
Let me reach ninety and I’ll happily dream about him, too. “That’s the general idea.”
Skirting the small beginnings of a pothole in the ferrocrete road, Anakin squinted into the middle distance. “Stang. I thought that might be a mirage, but it’s not, is it?”
Obi-Wan looked. “No. Those are hills.”
One hand clutched behind his head, Anakin jigged in frustration. “Great. We’ve been walking for hours and what—now we have to go mountain climbing?”
“Pimple climbing’s more like it,” he said, staring at him. “D’you know, I’m pleased we left Ahsoka behind. All this complaining is not what I’d call setting a good example. And if Rex could hear you …”
Disgruntled, Anakin shut up and they kept on walking. Cultivating blisters. Ignoring their thirst and hunger and pain. Sliding in and out of the Force, they remained exhaustedly alert for the first signs of danger. The road they traveled remained empty of traffic, and so far they’d seen no sign of droid activity. No trundle carts, no mobile security cams, and certainly no battle units. But that could change at any moment, especially if the village they headed toward held some value for the Separatists. An unarmed civilian population could be effectively controlled by only a handful of armed droids. They’d seen that on Naboo, and on more than a dozen even larger planets since the outbreak of war.
After a while Anakin slowed to a halt. “You feel that? I think the village is just on the other side of your pimple.”
Halted beside him, Obi-Wan nodded. The village was only a few klicks distant now. Through the Force he could read its busy, sentient life. No stark fear or misery, no overwhelming sense of immediate danger or dread, just a dull, muffling sadness shot through with brighter threads of anxiety.
“Doesn’t mean we’re out of trouble, though,” Anakin added, glancing sideways. “With our luck the place’ll be lousy with Sep droids. If it is, how do you want to handle them?”
“Carefully,” he replied. “But I’m sure if we stick to our story, they’ll have no reason to suspect anything.”
“Unless they’ve been beamed a security alert.”
And you call me a pessimist? He wiped his torn and filthy sleeve over his sweaty face. “Unlikely. You said it yourself, Anakin—the last thing Durd wants is for Dooku to find out we evaded capture.”
Sighing, Anakin pressed his fists into the small of his back. “Let’s hope so, because neither of us is in any shape for another fight.”
“If we keep our wits about us there’ll be no need for fighting,” he retorted. “We’re humble laborers returned to our home planet after three long years in the galactic wilderness, remember? With the emphasis on humble.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Anakin muttered. Then he looked at the empty, undulating countryside surrounding them. “It doesn’t make sense. Why would anyone build a village way out here? You’d find more life in the Jundland Wastes. At least the wastes have got herds of wild banthas. But there’s nothing out here except dead trees and dead grass.”
“I don’t know,” Obi-Wan said wearily.
Anakin flicked him an irritated look. “You’re not curious?”
Oh, for pity’s sake … “Yes, Anakin, of course I’m curious, but I don’t have the energy to worry about it now. So I’m not going to worry about it now—if that’s all right with you, of course!”
After that, they walked in silence.
Some three klicks later they reached the foot of the hills. Resigned, they put their heads down and started for the top, breathing labored, sweat trickling, their bruised muscles shrieking, every cut and scrape and blaster burn awake. Drawing on the Force to help them, feeling it flow like fire through their veins, they pushed through the pain and didn’t stop walking until they reached the blunt peak.
Below them, men and women toiled beneath the unclouded sun—and the village’s purpose became apparent.
“That’s a damotite mine,” Anakin said, pointing to a heavily shielded shaft-and-sinkhole arrangement on its far right outskirts. “Isn’t it?”
It was, if the intel Bant’ena Fhernan had collected was accurate. Which would explain the village’s isolation. Unrefined damotite’s toxicity virtually demanded that no other settlements be established within poisoning range.
Obi-Wan sighed. “I’ve been very slow. I should’ve realized we’d find a mine out here.”
“Yeah, right,” said Anakin. “You’re a simpleton, Obi-Wan. I’ve always thought that. I just didn’t want to say.”
Ha ha. Shading his eyes, he stared down at the village. No Separatists that he could see, at least not in the open. A few old groundcars, some of them traveling to and from the mine. A handful of antigrav floaters. A huddle of cottages on the far left side of the settlement. What looked like a small factory placed between the rest of the village and the mine. Pale smoke drifted from a series of flat chimneys. Was that where they refined the raw damotite before transport? Probably. Beside the factory stood some kind of warehouse. There was a small, unsophisticated power plant and an irrigation system. Some crops; the two planted fields splashed bright greens and yellows and reds against the drab brown of everywhere else. A few domestic animals grazed another splash of green. Other buildings lined three sides of what looked like a central communal gathering area. There were even some children, playing with a ball. And unless he was mistaken, no battle droids …
“Is it safe?” said Anakin, suddenly uncertain. “I think it’s safe. Does it feel safe to you?”
“Yes. Now come on. We need to get out of the open.”
So tired by this time they were close to staggering, they picked their way down the back side of the hill, making sure to stay close to the narrow road’s crumbling edge, just in case a vehicle caught them from behind. Stinging eyes fixed on the village, on salvation, they used every Jedi trick they knew to stay on their feet.
They were well beyond the village’s boundary, unchallenged, past the mine and the refinery and nearing the village’s heart, when the playing children saw them and ran shouting for a grown-up. Soon after that an antigrav floater came toward them along the main street, guided by a tall, thin woman in a baggy brown tunic and trousers and synthafibe boots. Most of her gray hair was covered in a faded red scarf. She halted the floater in front of them, blocking the way.
Watchful, suspicious, a length of old pipe in one hand, she slowly looked them up and down. “What do you want?”
Obi-Wan took a deep breath. Humble, humble. Don’t alarm her. “Help,” he said, pitching his voice a little high. “Please, Teeba? My cousin and I need your help.”
COUNT DOOKU STIRRED OUT OF UNEASY SLEEP, ONE DARK thought reverberating in his mind, in his bones, and through his gently surging blood.
Something is wrong.
He sat up. The shielded window in his cruiser’s stateroom was uncurtained. Starlight leavened the shadows and picked out the flecks of gold thread in his sumptuous bedcover. Holding out his hand, he admired the silvery wash across his skin. Such a simple, elegant beauty.
Then he commed the bridge. “Why are we at sublight?”
“My lord Count, an irregularity was detected in the hyperdrive conversion chamber. It is being addressed now.”
“Address it quickly,” he said, smiling at the subtle play of light and dark between his fingers. “Or I will be displeased.”
“Yes, my lord Count.”
The bridge officer’s fear warmed him. Complacency in one’s servants was anathema. And then, disconnecting from the comm board, he frowned. So was it this trouble with the hyperdrive that had stirred him from sleep? Or was some other mischief brewing? He closed his eyes to the starlight and let his superbly honed senses unfurl.
Power hummed subliminally through the cruiser’s durasteel skeleton as it sailed the astral winds of the galaxy’s Mid Rim Territories. Touched with melancholy, he sighed. This was his life now: no permanent home, no civilized planet to call his own. Coruscant denied him. Well, at least for now. Until the pustuled boil that was the Jedi Order had been lanced and drained and the Republic once and for all set free of the hypocritical tyranny that Yoda and his minions represented … and perpetuated.
Only the clarity of the Sith can save us.
But until that clarity prevailed he was perforce a vagabond, cruelly destined to wander the stars. Chained to the likes of General Grievous and Nute Gunray and the other stunted slime of the Separatist Alliance, every last one of them venal and greedy and corrupt to the core. Breathing the same air as such creatures made him ill. Only because Lord Sidious commanded it could he stomach the task. Only his dreams of the day he would see them slaughtered eased the pain of dealing with them.
“Fret not,” his exacting Master had told him. “They serve a purpose, and must live until that purpose is served. You may trust me implicitly, Tyranus—when they are no longer useful I shall see them cut down.”
Cold comfort, perhaps, but comfort nonetheless. Still, even so—
Something is wrong.
Wrong, and elusive. Dooku withdrew himself from the Force and opened his eyes. The chrono on his nightstand glowed dim blue. A breath past midnight, ship time. He hadn’t been asleep for long. Clad luxuriously in silk, he slid from the bed and crossed to the shielded window. Where were they, exactly? He read the starry void beyond the transparisteel with careless ease, his knowledge of the Republic intimate and instant. Ah, yes. Currently his cruiser was skirting Kothlis, where the natives scrambled like desperate ants to prepare themselves in case of another Separatist attack.
Sad though it was that Grievous had failed to take the Bothan colony and its spynet facility, still … Palpatine had yet again turned the edge of defeat into a thin blade of victory. A brilliant stroke indeed, to ensure that vital Republic resources were diverted to the planet’s protection. Played out properly the tactic would see the faltering Republic’s Grand Army sorely weakened in the ongoing Outer Rim Sieges. And with Mace Windu captive to both Kothlis and Bothawui panic, even the Jedi Council had been weakened. Yoda was weakened, for he relied upon Windu’s advice and staunch presence. And a weakened Yoda was a very good thing.
So why then am I certain that something is wrong?
Letting his eyes drift closed again, he sought afresh within the Force for a clue to his disquiet. Within the true Force, the Force of power and majesty. The Jedi called it the dark side, like frightened children cowering under their beds, but of course it was no such thing.
They are merely blinded by the power. Too weak to wield it, or even comprehend.
And so to this brewing mischief. Was it connected to his current mission? His star cruiser Vanquisher was on its way to Umgul, in the Darglum system. With the costs of war escalating daily, Palpatine had just announced a new raft of tax increases to help defray ruinous military expenses. Umgul, with its high tourist turnover, was ripe for plucking—and the pleasure planet’s government was not amused. Was so unamused, in fact, that it had reached out to Count Dooku, the political firebrand, the champion of systems’ rights, the lambaster of Republic greed, and requested an urgent meeting.
Darth Tyranus had been only too happy to oblige.
But did his disquiet mean the Umgul Cabinet was now wavering in its intent to abandon the Republic and side with the Separatist Alliance? He sincerely hoped not. For the loss of hedonistic Umgul, with its famous racetracks and casinos and pleasure palaces and luxury resorts and decadent spas, would deeply distress the Republic’s idle wealthy … and many other citizens who scraped and saved and bartered their way to a once-in-a-lifetime encounter with unbridled luxury. And their distress would echo in the Senate chamber, rousing more protests, more disarray, more discord. HoloNet News and Entertainment would faithfully report the unrest, and its ripples would spread … and spread … and spread.
If Umgul is indeed wavering …
He waited for the Force to show him if that was the case, uneasily aware that he must tread lightly and not accept what he was shown on blind faith alone. With so much turmoil in the galaxy, even this far out in the Mid Rim, the Force’s eddies were not always reliable. Not even his vast skill and experience could guarantee a clear answer. It was the price he and Sidious paid for stirring the galaxy to war.
But no, the source of his disquiet wasn’t Umgul. Could it be Grievous? His loathsome general was slaughtering clones above Eriadu. The recent reports stated it was going quite nicely. No, the trouble wasn’t Grievous. Where else could there be mischief, then? What other little projects did he have on the boil?
Lanteeb.
Of course. Lanteeb … and General Lok Durd. The Neimoidian scientist set his teeth on edge and his skin to crawling. All Neimoidians did, of course, but Durd was the worst. More repellent even than Gunray, and that was quite a feat. At their last meeting, some three days ago, Durd had sworn to him on bended knees that the bioweapon was nearly ready. One last small irregularity to be ironed out. “A week, a week at most, my lord Count, and I promise you will have it. One week.” He’d sensed no deception in Durd’s desperate promise. Could he have been mistaken? Could he have been deceived?
The thought sent a shiver through him. His Master wanted that weapon completed. Further delay would displease him. And no man in his right mind displeased the Sith Lord Darth Sidious.
Durd, if you have lied to me I shall with my own hands peel you in thin strips and force you to feast on your own slimy hide.
So he bent his thoughts toward Lanteeb, toward Lok Durd and the Corellian scientist, Dr. Fhernan, the Neimoidian’s unwilling accomplice. Pushed hard through the roiling Force so he might discover the truth.
And there—there—yes—lay the source of his unease. Lanteeb and Lok Durd. The fear was faint but unmistakable. A different note, a different taste, than the ambient fear of the nothing little planet’s irrelevant populace.
Something is wrong.
Lok Durd’s bioweapon was the lynchpin in an important tactical dance. If the Neimoidian had somehow bungled his crucial task …
In addition to Vanquisher’s standard comm equipment, he of course had his own private holo unit for discreet conversations. Tight with ruthlessly restrained anger, Dooku fetched the unit out of hiding, placed it on his stateroom’s table, and commed the Neimoidian.
Durd took too long to answer.
“My lord Count!” the scum cried, at last. “An honor. Such an honor. How can I be of service today?”
The Neimoidian wasn’t easy to read. Not only because of the vast distance separating them, or because reading anyone via hologram was a distinct challenge in itself, but because his duplicitous species as a whole was a slippery challenge—even for a Sith.
“What progress have you made with the Project, General? By my reckoning you should be four days closer to success. Are you?”
Durd’s nictitating membranes flicked across his ugly eyes. “Closer, my lord Count? Yes, we are certainly closer. Yes, indeed, my lord. Success is within our grasp.”
Dooku smiled, being sure to display all his teeth. “And how many fingers would you say you have laid firmly upon it, General?”
“Fingers, my lord Count? I’m not sure I—that’s to say—human idioms, my lord, not always easy to—”
“General Durd!” He let the dark side flare around him. “I give you fair warning—I am not to be trifled with. You are being handsomely paid for the privilege of serving the Separatist Alliance. And even though you have failed us once we have forgiven you. Are you under the impression that a second failure will meet with an equivalent leniency? For if you are …” He shook his head. “Alas. You labor under a serious misapprehension. Do you understand me, General? Or do my idioms continue to confuse?”
“No, my lord Count,” said the Neimoidian faintly. “I understand perfectly.”
“Excellent. Then I can expect to hear from you no later than four days hence, with good news about the completion of your Project?”
“Yes, my lord Count,” said Durd. He was close to choking. “Four days, my lord. I will comm you in four days.”
A distinct stench of fear bubbled through the dark side. Dooku smoothed his beard, eyes narrowed. “What aren’t you telling me, Durd? The truth. Or I swear you will feel my fingers closing hard upon the back of your neck.”
The Neimoidian wrung his plump, clammy hands. “It’s—it’s nothing, my lord Count. I swear. The woman was being troublesome. The scientist. Doctor Fhernan. I had to punish her. Not so that she cannot work, of course not, but severely enough so she mended her ways.”
Without the scientist his plan was ruined. If Durd had misjudged the situation … “Punish her how, General?”
“I took action against a hostage, my lord. She understands now, and is perfectly obedient.”
Took action meant “killed.” Grudgingly Dooku appreciated the gesture. “You’re quite certain she will give you no further trouble?”
“Absolutely, my lord Count,” said Durd, eagerly nodding. “She is as penitent as can be. You will have your weapon, sir. The Separatist Alliance will prevail.”
He could still sense Durd’s fear, but pride and arrogance and truth mingled with it. The Neimoidian believed his own claim, that much was clear.
“And the other hostages? They remain secure?”
“They are secure, my lord Count. Doctor Fhernan is bound tight to my will.”
“Then I am satisfied,” he said. “For now. Return to your work, General. I look forward to your final report.”
He broke the transmission in the midst of Durd’s incoherently blathered promises. And as he disconnected the signal he felt a leap in Vanquisher’s engines. A heartbeat later the stars beyond his stateroom’s window shivered and streaked as the cruiser made its jump to hyperspace.
Disquiet allayed, Dooku returned to his bed. Sleep claimed him swiftly. As the warmth of the dark side closed over his head, he felt himself smile.
Ah, sweet victory. Close enough now to kiss.
SCANT SECONDS AFTER Count Dooku’s flickering image vanished from the holopad, Lok Durd vomited down the front of his tunic.
I lied to Count Dooku. I lied to Count Dooku. Hive Mother protect me, I lied to—
He vomited again. Praise to all good things in the hive that he was alone. He’d lied to the leader of the Separatist Alliance, a man who—by all accounts both confirmed and rumored only—could kill with a look, or the snap of his fingers. Possibly by merely raising an eyebrow.
I lied to Count Dooku. And … I think he believed me.
Horror and relief coursed through his veins. If he’d been human, surely a river of sweat would be pouring down his skin. How he’d managed to dupe Dooku he didn’t know, but he wasn’t inclined to question the miracle. No. He’d accept it and build on it, to salvage the ruins of his life.
The Jedi escaped. Every hostage but one rescued. All I have left is that barve of a woman. And if she so much as suspects that the rest of her precious family and friends are safe …
There was no one he could trust with this. Barev, Colonel Argat’s replacement, was typical human scum. And as if that weren’t bad enough, the liaison officer answered to the nondroid wing of the Separatist military machine, not to him. Barev and the others called him General Durd, but he wasn’t really one of them. That was a courtesy title, a show of respect he’d had to fight for. Humans were such bigots. Count Dooku was a bigot, though no sentient who wanted to live was fool enough to say so to the man’s face.
Durd whimpered. Mired to his armpits in trouble, staring at calamity everywhere he turned, there was only one creature he could trust. And it wasn’t even a creature, it was a droid. Built to his most careful specifications, and equipped with unique sensor and infrared programming that made it impossible for anyone to give the machine orders in his stead.
KD-77 was the closest thing he had to a friend.