A Familiar Face
4.
"It's Ben. Ben Kenobi. You've mistaken me for someone else." The hermit had little hope that a mind trick would avail him anything; the fact that the individual standing before him had enough individuality to be a deserter also meant that he was minimally altered at the genetic level. The Kaminoans, in their quest to manufacture a perfect army, had spared a tiny percentage of their product – or victims, depending on your point of view – from the degradation of complete docility. And that in turn meant that this man had a will like Jango Fett's – iron and immovable.
He was right. "Yeah, " the tramper snorted. "And I'm a whore from Mos Espa, lookin' for a new employer."
Respect for one's commanding officer had gone the way of civilization in general, apparently. But the hermit still had a few tricks up his sleeve. Genetic alteration was only one method the cloners had used to develop an obedient soldier; intensive conditioning began early – earlier even than Jedi training. "Trooper!" he barked. "Identify."
Reflexively, Fett's copy jerked into a rigid stance, eyes riveted directly ahead. "CT 726480, Rancor Squadron, Special Operations," he rattled off, before rational thought could intervene. A half-second after he had uttered the deeply ingrained response, his face twisted into an expression of hateful revulsion. "You kriffing Jedi bastard!" he snarled. "I should kill you right here."
But the lightsaber hilt was already in the hermit's hand. CT726480 eyed it warily, his limbs frozen in a posture of arrested hostility. He knew what it was, and he knew what it could do. "You won't be killing anybody," the hermit – Jedi, General, outlaw, refugee- said quietly. "What's your name?"
The man's soft laugh was bitter, and weary. "I'm goin' by Womprat these days," he growled. "You like it? It's better'n your prissy-stiff-arse name, Obi Wan."
Resentment roiled off the man like the infamous stink off his chosen namesake. "I prefer Ben, at least in these parts, if you don't mind. Now that we've been introduced, I suggest we decide what to do about this unfortunate meeting."
Womprat's dark eyes rested on the saber. "You gonna kill me, Jedi? Hurry it up. I've waited long enough."
The hermit shifted, impatience eroding his calm control. "I'm not going to kill you in cold blood. I do need to know what you intend to do about this encounter."
The clone leaned back against the cool metallic grid of the lift cage, speculatively. His arms crossed over his chest and he tipped his partially shaven head to one side. "Huh," he grunted. "You know they just doubled the bounty on you, Genera - Ben? Your mystical backside is worth a half million dead, but the Empire's offering twice that for your capture. Vader's orders. What do you think of that?"
"I'm flattered," he said scornfully. He was afraid. Half a million credits was the market value placed on revenge. What that might consist of, he would not dare imagine. He didn't need to. The thought of seeing him again, hideously transformed, mangled body and soul – his spirit twisted by Darkness, his young body mutilated…hacked to pieces and left to burn, broken by the hand that once was extended in friendship, in fatherly pride – was almost too much. Rank fear and a swell of nausea sent a chill down his spine. His free hand tightened on the hand rail of the lift. He must not show weakness to Womprat.
"A million credits would buy me the rest of my life back. Asteroid of my own. Enough money to live easy. It's nothing personal, " the clone explained. "You're a wanted man. I would just be obeying orders."
"That's the trouble though, isn't it?" Ben reasoned with him. Negotiation, the old stand-by. Someone had once said he could out-talk the grim reaper, if he put his mind to it. Apparently he was to be put to the test, yet again. "You aren't obeying orders, not anymore. You can't collect a bounty; you're just as wanted as I. Desertion is still punishable by immediate imprisonment and death. And I don't plan on cooperating with your scheme."
Womprat studied him thoughtfully. "I could spilt the profits with someone else. There's plenty here on planet that would love to go divvies on you."
The Jedi gestured dismissively. "Surely you are not fool enough to trust anyone on Tatooine. You will never find a more despicable hive of scum and villainy."
The ex-clone's upper lip curled, in that peculiar way he and his brothers had. It gave them a feral, unpredictable appearance. "One word from me and you're dead, Kenobi."
"I might point out that the inverse also applies."
Womprat shook his head, frustrated. A bevy of droids gathered on the decks far below them, warbling and bleeping in consternation. Soon enough they would be bombarded by an emergency services team, intent on rescuing the stranded pair from the apparently malfunctioning lift. Neither of them desired such attention; they shared a fragile anonymity. The hermit waved a hand and set the cage into motion once more. It rattled upward toward its distant moorings, again painting them in a rapid kaleidoscope of shadow and light.
"I'm not letting you outta my sight, Jedi."
"Nor I you." The saber disappeared behind a fold of his long cloak, but its message remained imprinted firmly on his interlocutor's mind. It had bought him a brief stalemate; but Ben was under no delusion that the balance of power was stable. One false move, and either or both of them would surely end up dead – or worse.
The lift jerked to a standstill at the summit of its tower, and they cautiously exited. Here, on the upper landing platform, smaller craft lifted off and settled, a flock of agitated moths. The duracrete, cracked and worn and stained with coolant and lubricant spills, was already baking in the late morning sun. The hermit shifted his feet carefully, to keep the heat from searing through the soles of his nerfhide boots. When this pair finally wore out, he would be hard pressed ever to find replacements of such quality. The very act of worrying about such mundane details was a novelty to him; but he accepted the humiliation as part of his exile. Beside him, in his battered tramper's gear, Womprat matched him pace for confident pace.
The entrance was blocked by a cordon and a small clutch of uniformed men – some in the drab grey of the Imperial navy, some in medics' garb. Two storm troopers flanked the doors, their white armor painfully reflecting the suns' excessive splendor.
"There's two more!" one of the uniformed men called out, indicating the pair of vagrants crossing the tarmac. A medic and two of the others jogged forward, their faces set in the hard and idealistic lines of benevolent despotism.
The Force tightened as Womprat shifted into battle awareness, his mind instantly reverting to its ingrained default setting. Ben grasped his forearm in warning. "We have no motive for running, or suspicion," he reminded the clone. "Relax." The habit of obedience was not entirely lost to the maverick clone; the words, issued in a tone of quiet authority, had a marvelously soothing effect on the man. They slowed to a confused shuffling as the three officials hurried forward.
"You there!" the medic hailed them. "Excuse me. Would you step inside for a moment? No, no need to worry – we've set up a free clinic. The bantha flu outbreak, you see. Imperial Public Health is providing screening and treatment services – to contain the epidemic. Please…won't you come just this way?"
The naval officers behind the sallow-faced medic, and the storm troopers behind them, maintained a stony silence, a wordless declaration that the invitation was in point of fact a command. The hermit considered the small group affably, blue eyes squinting in the bright sunlight.
"We've already been seen and treated,"" he informed the speaker, making a soft gesture with one hand.
"We've already treated them," the medic recalled, absent-mindedly withdrawing a datapad and scrolling through its record screen. "Yes…uh….well…what was your patient ID number again?"
"I've quite forgotten," Ben smiled. "But it isn't important."
"It's not important," the man agreed, relief smoothing over the confused rumples marring his tall forehead. He pocketed the datapad and half-turned away, but one of his more obstreperous and single-minded companions waylaid him with a hand on his drab tunic's sleeve.
"If they're not on record, we should process them again," he hissed. "We don't need to spread contagion because we overlooked a tramp and a beggar. And make sure the forms are filled out properly." He nodded sharply at the two indigents. "Come this way," he said in a brisk tone. "It won't take but a moment."
The wanderers were herded along into the broad pavilion, escorted by several enthusiastic public servants clad in Imperial military uniforms.
