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Chapter 26

No One is Special

Four long days had passed since Axxila. Being contemplative by nature, Obi-Wan thrived in the fraught silence of the Tangent. His choices were assessed and buried, and dug up and assessed, buried and dug up, and so on and so on.

There was a traitor among his crew. The Sith had a head start. He had no explanation for Padme's memory. Miler Crata was dead. And Aayla teetered at the chasm of the Dark Side. These things, in sum, formed a wound in the Force where Obi-Wan touched it. Thus he shut the Force out for hours at a time. In these moments, when his heart had no counterweight, he was truly afraid of what he felt.

Obi-Wan restricted access to important locations. External communication was suspended indefinitely.

He was sitting in the cockpit when Julian's voice rang through his comlink. "Obi-Wan, you wanted to know when..."

"Thank you, Doctor."

Landon squinted against the light, struggling to translate input into thought. He was in a bed, covered in white sheets. He couldn't feel his hand, but his fingers were flexing.

"Do you know where you are?" Julian asked. Landon's stare yielded him nothing. "You're in sick bay. Aboard the Dawn Tangent. You were in very rough shape, but you're going to be fine."

Obi-Wan leaned down, gripping the bed rail. "Landon, I need you to focus. What happened on Axxila?" Landon cringed at his loudness. His eyes squeezed shut. Obi-Wan pressed: "What happened to Miler?"

Julian grabbed his arm. "He's in no shape to be interrogated."

"I would think you, of all people, would want to know what happened."

"Step back from my patient," the doctor demanded. "You're in charge of this mission but not my infirmary."

That broke through his wall. The Jedi's scowl became a frown. "Indeed, I am not," his voice deflated. "You'll be all right, Mister Solo. We'll talk when you're well."

Obi-Wan touched the doctor's arm in a show of contrition. "I'll send R2 to look after him. You're needed in the briefing."

The crew assembled in stellar cartography. Holographs of the planet Mareth—from space and the ground—projected through the room, submerging its occupants.

Quinn's face was distorted by a massive defense grid, rendered in blue. He led the briefing with obsessive precision. "Ten years ago, there was a deadly plague. We know very little about the pathogen. We only know it spread quickly—and was deemed incurable."

"I studied the records," Julian added. "It was lacking in detail. The documentation was, frankly, disgraceful."

Quinn continued, "The Republic could not allow it to get off-world. We quarantined Mareth and set up a defense grid. No one has entered; no one has left. There's been no communication in the last ten years."

"We'll have to use hazard suits," Obi-Wan said. "We have no way of knowing if the plague is still active."

Julian said, "It's pretty cold-blooded. We left them there to die."

Quinn moved to one side so blue corpses framed him. "When there are only bad choices, moral ground becomes flat."

"That's charming," Julian grumbled.

Obi-Wan's eyes flicked patiently between them. "Let's focus on the lives that can still be saved."

"I agree," said Padme. "But Julian's right. Whoever's left won't be happy to see us. Even before the quarantine, they didn't like the Republic."

"Why not?" asked Aayla.

"Mareth was controversial. It has a memory-based economy." At Aayla's frown, Padme explained: "They don't use credits. Goods and services are paid for with memories."

"How does that work?" Aayla puzzled. "Every person is different. The government can't tell you what your memories are worth."

Palmer smirked in the corner. "Why not? They tell you what to do. They might as well tell you what it's worth to have done it."

Padme moved to the center of the room. This was the same conversation she'd had in the Senate. "Value isn't fixed. If you go buy a speeder, the dealer tells you what memory he'll accept. A family vacation, a perfect first date..."

"That's barbaric," said Julian. "Losing your memories..."

"I agree. I constantly fought with Mareth's delegation. Bail Organa worked with me; we tried to make them adopt credits. But we didn't succeed. The whole planet hated me."

"You also voted for the quarantine," Quinn pointed out. "I do not expect cooperation. We must hope the Sith are tardy."

Obi-Wan nodded against the wall of a closed fist. Mareth's survivors (if there were any) wouldn't help the Republic. But they might help the Sith. Obi-Wan's only resource was the crew in this room. "We need a place to start. Mister Trask: I welcome your suggestions."

Palmer pulled out a data chip. Rising languidly, he placed it in the projector. The old hologram flickered out. It was quickly replaced by the outline of ruins. An ancient temple, eroded from millennia of brutal sandstorms, filled the whole room.

"What am I looking at?" Obi-Wan asked.

Palmer explained, "Mareth didn't let outsiders study their ruins. This is the only panoramic holograph we have on record."

Julian frowned. "How is that even possible? A tourist can take holographs."

"Every site was locked down," Quinn interjected. "Over the years, they killed thousands of trespassers."

Padme said, "That begs the question: what are they hiding?"

Obi-Wan looked between Palmer and Quinn. "Tell me about the holograph."

Quinn made to speak until Palmer brushed past him. The historian snarled unseen by his counterpart. Palmer walked through the hologram, squatting by a pillar. "Most of the text is unreadable," he lamented, "but there's one fragment here."

The reptilian Jedi wrinkled his snout. "Third-Era Marethene. That places it around 40,000 BE." He skimmed the air with his claw, like he could actually touch it. "It's incredibly well preserved."

Obi-Wan sighed. "The translation, Quinn."

"I believe it says, 'You are the echo.'"

The bearded Jedi snapped his eyes down. A sudden heat rolled through his limbs.

"What does that mean?" Aayla asked.

Quinn said, "I do not know the reference."

Obi-Wan's brows sloped to a point. "When born you were, an echo in the Force, I felt." He stood, and walked to the pillar, inspecting the script. It was neatly written, compact but elegant, with a trademark flourish at the end of each word. The Jedi knew his own writing when he saw it. "Obi-Wan... I think the man was you."

He turned away from Padme, lest she see his consternation. Suddenly his head felt like an anvil. His mind was racing at breakneck speed.

"Who recorded this?" asked Julian. "When was it taken?"

Palmer ghosted a grin as he studied Obi-Wan. "No one knows. It was received at the Jedi Temple nineteen years ago."

"Before you left," Quinn realized.

"I thought nothing of it. Mareth didn't interest me."

Obi-Wan straightened. A dispassionate mask snapped in place. "Do you know where it was taken?"

"There's nothing to cross-reference," said Palmer. "It could be anywhere."

"Then we'll have to find someone who does know."

Julian said, "It's one site out of hundreds. Are you sure it's important?"

Obi-Wan paused. The crew wasn't ready to hear what he knew, and he didn't know enough to explain himself anyway. "It's the lead we have. Whoever sent this to the Jedi must have had a reason."

The doctor posed another question: "There's still the matter of the defense grid. How do you plan to get through?"

"I pulled the decryption key from Republic intelligence," said Obi-Wan. "R2 can transmit."

Quinn turned to Padme, features schooled in a neutral expression. "We should take precautions, Senator. Your reception may be... lukewarm."

Padme smiled acidly. "I will rely on my protectors."

"Your trust inspires," Obi-Wan deadpanned. "It's five hours until orbit. Let's all be ready. Dismissed."

It had been thirty minutes since they dropped out of hyperspace. Aayla's thoughts were a reel, assembled out of order from the dark loops of her despair. She kept it together in the briefing, but every moment of calm promised turmoil later.

She sniffed twice before rising. Taking her saber, she entered the corridor.

Halfway to the cockpit, she found Obi-Wan at a view port. He was staring at the structure that orbited Mareth. The defense grid was comprised of nine spheres, with thick bands of energy coursing between them. Together, they deployed a shimmering blue force field that blocked traffic both ways. It almost looked like the orbs of an opera. There was beauty, mystery, in its slight undulation, and naked sight made it seem peaceful in intent. But he knew full well that the field was a death sentence.

"R2 is transmitting," Obi-Wan said mildly. "It should only be a few minutes." Aayla forced a tight smile, remaining silent. "About before—I apologize if I—" He swallowed, conflicted. She truly was on Anakin's path. His duty as a Jedi was to make her confront it. But he was also human. He was aware of that more and more. He couldn't stop himself from telling the truth.

"I'm angry, too, Aayla," he admitted with creeping fear. "That's why attachments are forbidden. But I had one to Miler. And I have one to you. I'm not afraid for you because it's my duty. I'm afraid because I love you."

Aayla held herself stiffly. Her brain-tail glimmered in the light from outside. He said, "The Force is not fair, Aayla. I once believed otherwise, but I've seen too much. The Light demands we walk one road. And cast away anything impeding our stride. It asks the impossible. And it plies us with nothing but the knowledge we're 'good.'"

In his mind's eye, he saw Vader thrust into Padme. "There are infinite paths that lead to the Dark Side. That is the Sith's strength. The slightest bitterness can change our course." Aayla lifted her head. The imploring look on his face frightened her. He said, "No one turns to the Dark Side for what they think are the wrong reasons."

Suddenly his comlink cried: "Bweeep."

Obi-Wan looked out the view port. The force field was gone. He touched Aayla's face, before turning to the cockpit. "I'm coming, R2."

"What kind of 'activity?'" Obi-Wan demanded.

R2 said, "In the past week, we are the third ship to transmit the key."

"The Sith are already here then. Somehow they gained access to Republic intelligence files." He didn't tell R2 about the saboteur. That knowledge was now restricted. His brain was moving on when it stopped cold with realization. "'The third ship to transmit,'" he repeated. "That means the other two didn't come together."

"Affirmative. There were three days between them."

Obi-Wan filed that for later. "Anything else?"

"I found an anomaly," R2 said. "Repeating every day since the defense grid was activated."

"Specify."

"A small data packet. The force field drops for one one-millionth of a second, allowing the packet to pass through."

Obi-Wan frowned. "What's in the data packet?"

"Unknown."

He pinched his chin between his thumb and pointer. "Could someone lower the force field without the decryption key?"

"Theoretically."

Obi-Wan waited, but the droid was silent. "Then theorize."

"Could the Force not achieve this?"

"Wielded sufficiently," Obi-Wan said. Almost immediately, he wanted to dismiss it. This was a planet-wide force field. Very few people had power on that scale. But very few is not none. "Keep this to yourself," he told R2.

The sentient mind is a marvel. But faced with trauma, it loses integrity. When something bad happens, we can usually be strong while the moment demands it. We can even be strong when no one's watching. But when people inquire as to how we're doing, and we accept their sincerity, we acquaint with the tears we gave up waiting on.

Julian understood this. Thus he kept his voice plain. "Landon woke up," he said from the doorway. "I thought you'd want to know."

Aayla nodded silently. They turned their heads to see Padme walk past.

"We're about to land," she announced.

The three walked to the cockpit, where Obi-Wan was piloting. Palmer stood by the wall-length scanner.

The view was resplendent. Mareth's composition was only twenty percent ocean, and the royal blues were more beautiful for their relative scarcity. Modest ice sheets covered the poles, contrasting the deserts that pervaded the surface. The husks of dead starships were trapped in orbit, floating among satellites that still registered power.

Palmer reported, "Life signs are concentrated on the eastern continent. It looks like one large city. The rest of the planet's barely inhabited."

"Then we know where we're going," Obi-Wan said.

Vast cities were derelict, disrepaired mausoleums for millions of the dead. In ten short years, nature had reclaimed much of the environment. Skyscraping obelisks were choked by vines. Predators, prey played their zero-sum game in the heart of downtown.

Most of the cities told a tale of abandonment. But some had been sacked. The capital city—Bratach—was barely recognizable. Where once there were bridges, only pylons remained. The Capitol dome was so much rubble. Decomposed bodies lay among garbage.

Padme felt herself blanching. "This wasn't just the plague. Someone destroyed it."

Aayla said, "If the Sith are—"

"It wasn't the Sith," Obi-Wan interrupted. "The remnants have settled. This happened years ago."

Palmer stood at the scanner, which began to beep softly. "We should see it soon. The city's called Cuimhn."

"We're totally in the dark," Julian lamented. "Even with the suits, we're taking a big risk."

Padme asked, "Did you think saving the galaxy would be safe?"

"I'm giving you my medical opinion, Senator. Do what you want with it."

She graciously ignored him, knowing grief was in his tone. The words were forgotten when she looked out the window.

The city of Cuimhn came into focus. It began on shore, and sprawled over the ocean, stretching thousands of miles beyond the horizon. Cuimhn took inspiration from bustling Coruscant. It had a similar aesthetic, and the same stacking layout that placed building upon building, until the clouds marked the end of bombastic spires. But it was far less dense, optimized for traffic, and had none of the grit and grime that made Coruscant lived-in.

Cuimhn's white-orange pallete created the false appearance of a constant sunset. There was an eerie sense it was frozen in time.

Five small drones streaked by the Tangent. Screeching sirens signaled concern. They formed a wall by the window, matching speed with the ship.

The radio crackled, and a terse male voice filled the Tangent cockpit: "Unknown aircraft, this is control. We are transmitting coordinates to a landing pad. You are directed to land immediately. Failure to comply will result in your destruction."

Obi-Wan waited a beat before smoothly replying, "Acknowledged, control. Unknown will comply."

The Tangent was clamped on all sides, locking it in place. This was a military complex. The armored guards gave it away. They stood clamoring for action at the edge of the hanger.

Obi-Wan grinned. Their ludicrous number was a minor compliment. He and Padme descended the ramp. Their drab green hazard suits starkly contrasted the white deck of the hanger.

A Primly Dressed Woman waited to meet them. She had the unrepentant stare of a lifelong bureaucrat. It had just the right levels of annoyance and apathy. The Woman's hair was drawn back in a very tight bun.

There was every indication the air was safe to breathe. On an ordinary mission, Obi-Wan would have remained cautious. But in their present situation, diplomacy prevailed. His suit was a grim reminder of the planet's abandonment.

Obi-Wan reached for his helmet. It slid off with a hiss. "Hello there."

The Woman studied him as Padme unmasked. "Welcome to Mareth, Master Jedi."

"Thank you. This is—"

"Senator Padme Amidala," The Woman said very slowly. Vicious rage, bubbling in her throat, congealed to a tight smile. "Of Naboo, if I recall."

Padme couldn't count the number of men she'd condemned to death throughout the war. But the dead cannot speak. The people of Mareth could. Padme's suit gloves hid a small tremor.

"My reputation precedes me," Padme managed. "Is this..."

"The last outpost of our people," The Woman said. "The rest of the world is lost. We take extreme measures to protect what remains."

Her dangerous undercurrent didn't break the Jedi's calm. "It is very important that we speak with your leadership."

"May I ask what it pertains to?"

"I'm afraid this matter requires strictest confidence," Obi-Wan said.

The Woman squinted. "It is not everyone who may meet with the Premiere. Fewer, still, who come from off-world."

"Are we not the first?" Obi-Wan asked knowingly.

When The Woman said nothing, Padme interjected: "This is very important. Lives are at stake. You can't imagine how many." Instantaneously, she regretted her words. The Woman's tight smile morphed into a sneer.

The Woman said, "All things are possible for one who pays the cost."

"What is your price?" Obi-Wan asked.

He might've expected her pleasure at the question. The Woman produced a small object from inside her coat. It was a thin blue disc, hollow at the center and one inch in diameter. Tiny serrations covered one side.

Obi-Wan knew right away: it was a cognator. Their awful means of extracting memories. "I would suggest an alternative. One with real value."

"What a quaint notion: the Jedi who refutes intangibles' value."

"I will not judge your way of life. But we are not part of it."

"Judgment is implicit in your refusal. And in your choice of companions," she said with a glance at Padme. "Master Jedi, do you even know why we chose this way of life?" His indulgent silence launched her into a lesson. "Two hundreds years ago, when we weren't part of the Republic, our world was ruled by an oligarchy. The state controlled everything: food, manufacturing, news. An aristocracy thrived while the rest of us suffered."

The Woman peered coldly at the space between them. "Revolution was inevitable. The campaign was long, bloody, and successful. But revolution does not satisfy as the winner once dreamed. We controlled the planet, but we couldn't change the past. We carried our pain. The wealthy carried remembrance of comfort."

Padme's throat felt tight.

"The ones we let live rotted in jail," The Woman said. "But every time they closed their eyes, they escaped to another world. A world far better than the one they left us."

Obi-Wan said, "You wanted the powerful to feel your pain."

"No, Master Jedi. We wanted the pained to feel powerful." The Woman held up the disc between her thumb and pointer. Her chin tilted fiercely, and she stared at Obi-Wan. "You are not special. No one is special. You will pay our price, or you will leave our planet."

He took the disc in his hand, looking at Padme. Her apoplectic expression, laid bare to The Woman, broke Obi-Wan's heart. He fought tooth and nail to stay centered in the Force.

He pressed the disc to his temple. A soft grunt ripped free as it pierced his skin. Little pincers fixed it in place. The disc glowed brightly, signaling function. "How does it work?" he asked.

"You will simply think of a memory. Your cognator will transfer it to my brain."

"Tell me what you want."

The Woman looked between them. Cruel elation brightened her eyes. "Your best memory of Padme Amidala."

Obi-Wan froze at the unconscionable demand. All the color had drained from Padme's face. He tried to block it out, but his blood was chilled by her utter dismay. It wasn't a choice. Yet it certainly was. One woman's whisper threatened to outshout the cries of trillions.

"Obi-Wan..." she breathed.

It was only one memory. His bond with Padme didn't hinge on a moment. But the memory that presented was more precious than anything. Living without it was inconceivable. Could he truly let a stranger dictate its worth?

It wasn't a choice, though. Not for a Jedi. "Very well," said Obi-Wan.

"Your cognator will provide a 'preview,'" The Woman said. "The first moments of your memory will project as a hologram. This allows me to confirm the memory is sufficient."

Obi-Wan kept Padme in the corner of his eye. "There will be no preview. You have my word the memory will suffice."

The Woman regarded him as a crow does the slowly dying. "Terms are agreed," she said after a moment. "You may find it helps to close your eyes."

Padme replayed their acquaintance from first day to last, considering which memory she'd choose in his stead. The answer came quickly. Was it as precious to Obi-Wan?

The dignified Jedi shut his eyes lightly. His head flinched back. The cognator flashed. There was REM-like movement behind his lids. Childlike fear came over Padme. This wasn't right. It was cruel and vile. Who would he be? He wouldn't remember.

Obi-Wan gasped and his eyes shot open.

There was something there, a soft hand in vapor, rapidly receding like dreams when we wake. He tried to hold on. He tried to remember. But there was only a faint shape of the thing he'd given up.

He felt fingers on his arm. "I'm all right," he said strangely.

The Woman pleasured herself with Padme's distress. Riotous mirth sparked in her eyes. She alone knew what the Jedi had chosen. It was deeply intimate. Something substantial existed between them, but she'd taken the cipher that could have decoded it.

"It is done, Master Jedi."