Fallout
Chapter 14
Anakin used the Force to lever open the inner hatch, and stepped from the dark decontam-field tunnel into the pale light of the radiation lock. The service droid slumped in one corner; at his sudden reappearance, it jolted back into life, servos whirring and limbs jerking in its characteristically spasmodic manner.
"Oh my! Oh dear… you've only just arrived - one hundred eleven years late, to boot…and now you're leaving again?" it complained, tottering toward him with an air of affronted hospitality.
"I'm a social butterfly," he told it curtly, eagerly stripping the layers of golden cloth off his person. "Here. Gimme back my clothes and gear." He tossed the wadded bundle at the droid and crossed his arms, itching to get on with business.
The mechanical servant fumbled in one of the storage compartments clumsily, sorting through the items stowed inside its recesses. Anakin lost patience and called some of his belongings into his hands, sending the poor droid into cybernetic apoplexy.
"Oh my! This is highly irregular! There are protocols to be observed, sir! Re-exposure to a radiation saturated environment must be carefully controlled – indeed, we haven't had a single breach of optimal safety parameters in one hundred eleven standard years… I must reference the procedure manual to see what forms need to be filed in the database.."
He let the dithering droid carry on, yanked the clone bodysuit back in place, pulled on his acid-burned boots, hastily tugged tunics over his head, clipped his saber at his belt, and carefully recovered his prosthetic with its outer glove. Last of all, he clamped the clone helmet over his face. Thus armored, he shoved his way past the blustering droid and pushed back through the outer hatch.
Outside he hesitated, surveying the damage Obi Wan and he had wrought upon the outer seal earlier. If droid scouts penetrated this far, they wouldn't find it difficult to force an entry. But there wasn't time to painstakingly restore the ray shield generator now. He exhaled, banishing tension. He would just have to be fast – and trust Obi Wan to defend the underground citadel against any stray invaders.
He jogged up through the dilapidated capitol building, ascending through sub-basements and lower levels into the main atrium, where a tiny drizzle of acidic rain still spattered through the ruined dome into a shallow pool below. Night claimed Rhellis Massa; the drip of toxic water and the susurration of dust were the only sounds. And with these whispers came other inaudible moans and cries, the Force echoes of the long-dead. He had forgotten about them for a short while, in the Friends' subterranean oasis. Here, they chorused as loudly as ever, clamoring for his attention.
He set his comlink to an open active beacon, and waited. Either Artoo would find him first, or Dooku's droids would. He threaded his way among the fallen chunks of masonry, down the broken ceremonial stairway, and into the main thoroughfare of the gutted city. Here, in the canyon formed by the empty husks of its buildings, he was accompanied by a host of specters, by a legion of shadows marching at his back. The Force was rife with their laments, with their cries of sudden terror. Anakin drew it in, muted its frenzy in his blood, drank of it until the seething fear ran liquid in his veins, mingled with his resolve. His power to accomplish his will, to prevail, became identical with their despair, the thousand, million-fold jolt of their destruction. He was afire with it, banking its flames within his soul, within his grasp, waiting…
He welcomed the sudden arrival of the first droids.
Wraith-like, silhouetted in their own blinking red probe lights, they floated into the street, their reverse-articulated legs uncoiling beneath them, sharp, wicked, unforgiving, the thrum of their repulsors a counterpoint to his own deeper pulse, the war drum pounding beneath his skin. The Force rose up, welling with terror milked from long-dead memory, and he unleashed it upon his foes.
His saber spat blue luminance upon the walls of the dead city, actinic defiance spattered across crumbling stone, twisted metal. He cried aloud, releasing the flood, and threw himself upon the foremost droid, blade carving a single elegant line of destruction through the century-long silence. The hunter-seeker exploded beneath the onslaught, its head, its limbs, its serrated bayonet legs, its blaster array, its wicked peering eyes scattered and rolling in the dust.
Its companions fired upon him, fell upon him in their turn. He met their attack, his 'saber a thin and burning armor between their murderous attack and his own murderous core. He held that barrier in place as long as he could, rebounding shots, intoning silently with each perfect block and parry: Accuracy. Speed. Stillness. Defense. But Soresu was not his birthright, not his art. It crumbled - and rage, outrage, aggression spilled through, erupted, swept his defenses away.
And he lost the battle. He was rage, and the killers sent to fell him were consumed in it. He carved through them savagely, mercilessly, the Force crushing their round bodies to crumpled balls, throwing sparking circuits like bright fountain-trails through the dark air. His saber screamed, a siren peaking to a soundless cry, to the hysterical chorus of ghostly voices. Even Darkness drew back, obeisant, leaving him in an empty space alone, lit by the thrumming cold fire of his blade. He stopped, chest heaving. Bits of droid lay at his feet, sprawled up the street in a long confetti trail.
How long till the next patrol came? How long till they discovered the underground hideaway? How long till they attacked, in droves, thrusting through the narrow opening, a mindless horde bearing down on Obi Wan without respite?
He almost tuned back, to stem the imaginary siege. In his mind's eye, his hands were once again stained with oozing mud and crimson liquid, once again holding a bloodied form he had not been able to save.
It was Artoo's shrill whistle of greeting that saved him from the moment and its panicked hatred, that dispelled the miasma of voices whispering in the Force.
"Artoo!" he shouted into his comlink, voice cracking in relief. "Where are you?"
The pert astromech burbled a saucy reply.
"No, I'm not worried," he snapped. "I think I can handle a few droids without your help, buddy. C'mon, hurry up."
He could feel new danger approaching; the destroyed patrol had sent for back-up, and worse yet, had finally pinpointed his position. They would scour the city like akks licking the bones of their kill, now that they had found one of the Jedi. Time was running out.
Overhead, the sharp note of his fighter's drives knifed through the heavy nighttime silence. Minutes away, another band of droids eagerly sped on their way, hungry for him, their complex programming already calculating a multi-pronged attack.
He did not wish to sink beneath the waves of this place's hatred again. Rhellis Massa was… intoxicating. Dangeorus. "C'mon, Artoo!"
The Delta settled primly beside him, sending up a choking cloud of dust. But the helmet took care of that. Anakin was leaping into the open cockpit a second later. His hands grasped the familiar yoke with the gratitude of a drowning man clutching at a piece of driftwood. The canopy closed. "Let's go," he ground out.
Artoo spun his dome and shrieked in excitement as he punched the lithe fighter up into the purple skies, outrunning the cloying fingers of hate, the seductive voices of despair which chorused mournfully below. Speed was his refuge, his strength, his non-place, his meditative center. The ship roared beneath him, exultant in speed, in danger, in the impossible.
He flew, he plummeted headlong, straight toward the upper reaches of the skies, where Dooku's fighter squadrons would be waiting.
They didn't stand a chance. He laid on more speed, until his thoughts and the melting tatters of cloud were one meaningless, painless blur.
Mktzm was sent to fetch the Jedi guest to the Friends' communal meal – a noisy affair held in a central cavern provided with long rows of low trestle tables. Stately grey-complected Pau and colorful Ichth'chtxl sat intermingled, the ubiquitous golden cloth of their robes catching the diffuse light of the primitive hover-globes above, radiating it back among the assembly in a warm consonance.
Mktzm chivvied Obi Wan along to the head table, and waved all four upper limbs at a place directly beside Master Xerxes before settling himself stiffly opposite, his inflexible exoskeleton only awkwardly accommodating the customary crouching posture. But the Ichth'chtxl made no protest, merely re-arranging the drapes of his robe before passing the serving dishes with graceful precision.
The fare was simple: fungal salads, a fermented and salty broth, slices of some hot compressed protein, all doubtlessly derived from the garden. The Ichth'chtxl ate with the assistance of narrow utensil tubes, artificial probosces. The Pau employed an elongated scoop. Master Xerxes looked out over them and beamed.
"Ah – Master Kenobi," he warned, "You may wish to avoid these essu fruits. They are considered deleterious to humans."
"Thank you." He watched Mktzm interact with a very small companion of the same species, an Ichth'chtxl child. The two buzzed and clicked away, humming and rubbing elbows in discordant unison. "Are the children raised in families or in common?" he asked, curiously.
Master Xerxes tilted his head to one side. "In common, of course. There were some objections in the first generation, naturally, but they are well accustomed to it now. And it is the best way."
Obi Wan nodded, passed the dish of essu, untouched, to the Pau on his left. He wondered how many other Temple customs had been grafted onto the Friends' utopian community… and how well they would tolerate the transition to life outside this sheltered colony.
Mktzm's young companion erupted into a shrill and squeaking cacophony – an ear splitting noise that the sent ripples of juvenile humor through the Force.
Master Xerxes leaned closer to translate. "B'chthkl is amused by your face-garden. He wonders why it has not yet turned white like mine, whether this means that you are a child like himself."
Obi Wan smiled. "Tell him that I am lamentably immature and will throw a shocking tantrum if he teases me any further."
The jest was transferred through the Thisspiasian and then Mktzm. The small insectoid's gleaming, faceted eyes bulged slightly and he tucked all his legs against his body in startlement, eliciting a ripple of laughter from Ichth'chtxl and Pau alike.
"Speaking of young ones," Master Xerxes continued in a low tone, "Your companion, Master Skywalker. He is most remarkable. The Force wars within him – do you not feel this also?"
"I –" Well. This was hardly polite dining conversation, but Master Xerxes was as eccentric and direct as any other Jedi two centuries old. "Anakin is special."
The Thisspiasian's head bobbed up and down several times. "He is the One. You know this already, though, I think."
"Perhaps." Obi Wan preferred not to discuss such things openly.
"I have spent many decades studying the prophecies regarding the end of this age," Master Xerxes offered. "They are, ultimately, unreliable and subject to many contradictory interpretations. The Living Force is a far better guide. You must not fret about such things as prophecy."
"I don't, master, believe me. The war hardly leaves time for idle speculation."
"Still," Master Xerxes mused. "A human. I was not expecting that. Tell me…. To whom was your friend Skywalker apprenticed? Surely the Council had sufficient insight to provide well for such a unique spirit's upbringing. Did old Yoda take him under his own wing?"
ObI Wan set his soup-dish down. The dregs of dark broth sloshed gently against its curving, pale sides. "Anakin was my Padawan."
The ancient Jedi stilled. His dark eyes, shadowed behind the silver veils of his hair, blinked slowly a few times, assessing. "But you must yourself have been barely past childhood."
He had never thought of it that way – not then, not ever since. The distance between his innocence and the burden of training Anakin was infinite, not measurable in years. But to Master Xerxes, a complete outsider, the difference between himself and Anakin might seem negligible, as though they were a pair of kitling littermates. "I was willing.. and there was little choice, though I have no regret."
The Thisspiasian tilted his head to one side. "Yes, yes, I see what you mean. There is a wisdom in that, too, I suppose," he muttered, sounding for all the world like a doddering elder who talked to himself, or to an imaginary third person hovering in the background.
"Pardon me, master, I don't-"
SenSen Xerxes waved a conciliatory hand at him. "Do not be perturbed," the ancient Jedi soothed. "I intend no disrespect or censure. Finish your meal. I have another, far more important question to ask of you, now that you are come. But we must speak of this matter in private. Will you meditate with me?"
Obi Wan looked up into the Thisspiasian's aged, exotic face with a nameless thrill of dread. The Force surged around them, carrying his will on its cresting tide, despite his trepidation. "Of course, master," he replied.