Someone gave Anakin access to the PA system. Obi-Wan hadn't known the Temple had a PA system until his padawan's voice careered down the halls.
"Service Corps, Laundry Department, report to the North Hangar. You leave in 20 minutes. Don't forget your scarves!"
Obi-Wan closed his eyes and muttered a brief prayer to the guiding wisdom of the Force.
Anakin's next announcement summoned Master Shaak-Ti to the East Speeder Bay. The High Council had each taken on advisory roles, overseeing segments of the Temple's pageant. Shaak-Ti had paired with the head botanist to produce the star bloom floats that would carry many Jedi and Service Corps members through the streets. Floats that now had to be transported from the Temple's hangars down to the promenade.
Logistics on that scale required more than a 12-year-old boy's imagination to pull off. To their credit, senior staff and council members took Anakin's work on the project seriously and had offered guiding hands and expertise. More, perhaps, than they might have had Obi-Wan been the one asking.
The PA system clicked on again, and Obi-Wan paused at the door to his apartment as Jocasta's voice floated down from an unseen source.
"Procession will commence in 5 hours, 15 minutes."
Parades, it turned out, were mostly made of waiting. The Star Bloom Festival Organizational Committee - Senate District had assigned every attending group a form up location on a side street off the Avenue of the Core Founders. As marchers poured in, they would pass through the Senate Plaza and up the Avenue, finally ending at the border to Sah'c Town, where the next district's parade would begin.
It was one celebration and many. No single parade could span the circumference of the planet. But a hundred thousand parades and a billion people walking through the progression of a day? That the galaxy could do.
Obi-Wan's very tiny part in all that pageantry lay in Senate Plaza.
He plucked his comlink from his belt and tapped on the door panel to leave.
"Anakin," he said, sliding into a stream of other Jedi.
"Yes. Yes, no . . . the other—" The boy's voice was distant and distracted.
"Anakin?"
Louder this time. "Yes, Master."
"I'm heading down to the Plaza now."
"Okay. Watch for Master Fisto!"
"Yes, I know the plan. I think the droid will give it away."
The boy's voice audibly smiled. "I hope so." Then someone else shouted Anakin's name on his side of the com. "Oh. Uh. Sorry, Master—"
"Go on. I'll see you down there."
Pride warmed in Obi-Wan's chest as he put his comlink away and focused on navigating to the speeder bay. More Jedi than he knew lived at the Temple whisked by each other in the stuffed halls. He held his breath on the elevator just to make more room, and sighed audibly when a packed open-top transport slid out of the bay and onto the skylane. The wind whipping through his hair felt a little bit like spaciousness.
The transport let them off at the Temple's first staging area, a clear two miles from the Senate Plaza. The better to let the crowds see their reclusive Force-wielders in action, went the thinking. And the crowds had started gathering a week before. From promenade level up to the lower floors of the spacescrapers, they claimed windows and established bleachers, sat on floating platforms and parked speeders. Temporary shelters were given permits by the constabulary during festival season, only because the jails couldn't house the number of violators they'd have otherwise.
But today—the big day—the shelters had come down. The long wait was over.
Obi-Wan wound his way through the crowd by skirting the edge of the avenue. A pass programmed into his comlink let him slip over the barrier without setting off the alarm so he could wend as needed without making a scene. He could have taken the avenue the whole way—and had the eyes of half the galaxy following him as he did nothing more significant than walking.
Even so, hushed whispers followed him everywhere.
Most citizens of the Republic never saw a Jedi in person—not even those living on Coruscant. For those who had come in just for the Star Bloom Festival, he might be a myth come to life. He felt the weight of attention drawn by the swish of his cloak. And a not entirely false smile crept onto his face as he offered nods and beg-your-pardons and polite waves.
There were . . . so many people.
As he crossed into the plaza, his shoulders relaxed, and the tightness around his chest released. He took a breath that reached the bottom of his lungs. Senate Plaza had been remodeled to include a dirt arena for the festival. The parade would maintain course along a paved levitating platform over the arena floor and pass between the Senators' stadium seating. At the determined mark, the platform would lift, and Obi-Wan's mock fight would take place in full view of the Senate. Towers filled with docked holocams stood sentry at the corners of the arena, and giant screens hung dull and black over the plaza, waiting to broadcast the events to the cheap seats.
Obi-Wan paused to take in the sight. The stands were nearly full already, and the ground seemed to rumble from the weight of so many voices talking at once. News crews from a hundred worlds buzzed around the edges of the arena, setting up cameras. Several Jedi in dark green and blue cloaks bustled in and out of a tunnel entrance that led under mezzanine box seats and back toward the Senate building. He started toward them, hoping the Temple had established its own staging area out of sight of the cameras and crowds.
A quarter of the way there, movement pinged in his periphery, and his attention shifted from the tunnel to the news crews. Halfway there, a Cathar stopped trying to hide himself among the crowd and openly kept pace. Obi-Wan tested him by slowing just a little and noting the response.
When he turned for the tunnel, the man slipped into his path.
"Master Kenobi," he purred.
Obi-Wan kept his expression blandly curious. "May I help you?" But he flexed his fingers at his sides—a gesture the Cathar noted with a dip in his gaze. It said I am unarmed but also I am not unready.
The cat-man placed a hand to the armor plate on his chest and bowed. He had, perhaps, rethought his tactics. As he righted, he smoothly extracted a small envelope from a leather pouch on his belt. Obi-Wan watched him squeeze the sides of the envelope to pop it open and slide a small object onto his palm. The Cathar looked up at him and offered his hand.
"Shemba the Hutt sends her regards," he intoned.
Obi-Wan's eyebrows lifted, and he took a step closer to peer at the gift. It was a sculpted star bloom. He took it from the Cathar's palm and turned it over in the sunlight. A flattened likeness of the white and purple flower rendered in glass and metal. It was a pin. Though he doubted it was only a pin. A tracker or bug seemed more likely, though he could hardly inspect it properly in the arena.
The Cathar slave stood watching. Expectant. Obi-Wan offered him a small smile.
"It's lovely."
He looked up toward the stands.
"Further to the right," the Cathar said.
And indeed, as Obi-Wan's gaze slipped down the stands, he spotted a large box section with the unmistakable bulk of a Hutt. Something flashed on Shemba's chest as she moved and lifted a hand his way, and he recalled the necklace and gemstone. He waved back.
If it was a bug, then she was already listening. And he was already several steps into the dance.
"Tell her it's a lovely gift," Obi-Wan said as he fastened the star bloom to his tunic. "And that I hope she enjoys the parade."
The Cathar bowed his head in acknowledgment and strode away toward one of the lifts that would return him to Shemba's side.
Obi-Wan frowned down at the little adornment. He'd have Anakin check it later. As it was, Shemba would get few state secrets for her efforts. Not this day anyway. There was too much to do, and none of it revolved around Senate politics.
The stands swelled to bursting as the kickoff time drew closer. Obi-Wan paced just inside the staging area tunnel not wringing his hands and not nervous about the day's performance. Equally not dying to know where Anakin was and how things were going.
He stopped himself in front of the battle droid and stared at its unmoving bulk. Behind him, the Jedi and Service Corps members arranged themselves into their color-coded segments. He let his eyes close and turned his attention toward the bond. Aylee's presence shone like silver flashes on a rippling pond. Tension drained from his shoulders, and he smiled—then concentrated on sending the feeling of the smile.
A chime snapped Obi-Wan's attention back, and he snatched his comlink from his belt.
"Yes?"
"Master!"
"Anakin! Where are you?" He spun as though expecting to see his apprentice come bounding in. He could hear the same din of the crowd from Anakin's side of the com.
"The control tower above you."
Obi-Wan peered up at the ceiling of the staging tunnel.
"The parade's about to start."
"Everything went well?"
"It's . . ." The boy trailed off.
"Anakin."
"It'll be fine. The Star Bloom float will come out before the cooks and the free candy."
"And Master Fisto's troupe?"
"Lined up, just like we planned." Anakin laughed nervously. "Don't worry, Master. Fisto's red cloaks will clear the field. And then it's all you."
Obi-Wan blinked up at the ceiling.
And then it's all you.
He swallowed, and his voice went somber. "You've done an amazing job, Anakin. I want you to know that."
"No!" Anakin crooned into the comlink. "You can't say that now! You'll jinx it! Take it back!"
"I—" Obi-Wan scowled, speechless for a second. "You've . . . almost done a good job, but the day isn't over?" he offered.
Anakin let out a dramatic sigh. "You'll never make it in holonovels, Master."
"I'll console myself later."
"Oh, oh! We're starting!" Anakin shouted, then hung up.
Obi-Wan turned toward the mouth of the tunnel and waited for the parade to begin.
He'd learned the choreography to music and spent more hours than he'd care to admit copying Anakin's hologram until he knew the steps by heart. Then more practice on his own, using only the track he'd found with the proper beat. And finally against the droid itself, pulling the strikes that would sever limbs and cause other permanent damage.
In the tunnel underneath the stands, Obi-Wan pressed a small electronic dot into each ear and tapped on his wristband. The music from the parade doubled in volume. He watched Jedi in red cloaks perform flips and backflips as they passed the tunnel, dueling with one another. They swung and struck and landed in unison as their mock battle moved down the parade route. Their music faded as it followed them.
Obi-Wan's gaze dropped to the line of shadow separating him from the sunlit arena. He drew a breath and felt the expanse of it down to his feet. He exhaled worry. Exhaled nerves. For a moment he opened his senses to the Force and let himself notice the moving flow of it all around him. All those lives. All that energy. All that light. So much of the galaxy gathered here in joy.
He paid attention to his breathing and listened for the song.
The last note from the red cloaks ended, and a metallic twang rang through the air as the platform across the arena floor energized its levitation engines and lifted skyward. Obi-Wan turned the volume in his earbuds up. The audience in the stands and across the galaxy would hear music during the performance, but not what he heard. It was supposed to look like a fight, not a dance. And if they could anticipate strikes by the beat of the drum, a dance is all it would appear.
Somewhere up in the control room, Anakin hit play, and Obi-Wan's wrist tuner started playing the special track. On the third bassy thump, Obi-Wan stepped out into the light. The crowd might have clapped. The announcer might have said his name. He focused on the feeling of his feet making contact with the ground.
Fourteen . . .
Fifteen . . .
Sixteen . . .
Turn.
He spun and gazed up at the stands, where Senators sat both watchful and waving. His cloak and sleeves fluttered, and if Anakin could control the weather it could not have been more dramatically apt. Could he—? No. Focus on the count.
Nineteen . . .
Twenty . . .
A bow to the stands, and then a turn, pacing away.
A trail of fine dust blew up in his wake, from the earth and sand deposited in the plaza just for this. Just for him.
The music in his ears thundered with drums. A quickening beat, like a quickening heart. And then horns. Blast. Horns. Blast.
He froze, turned, and stared back at the maw of the tunnel below the stands. His shoulders itched and hands gripped. The music swelled with a rising exaltation, and Anakin's massive battle droid shot out into view.
In its compact form, it looked like an armored troop vehicle, churning up dirt with its treads as it carved a circle around Obi-Wan's position like a hunting beast. He turned as it went, keeping his gaze settled on the glowing lens that served as its eye. The droid did the same. Or seemed to. Every move had been programmed, every motion timed. It would perform its attacks whether Obi-Wan stood before it or not, and so consciousness had been optional.
The droid stopped on queue, having completed its menacing. And they both stood so the audience in the stands could get a side-on view. Grey dust passed in a cloud between them, while Obi-Wan breathed. Counted. Felt the need to move to the music in his limbs.
Blasters sprung free from the droid's two turrets, one mounted above each tread.
Obi-Wan slipped his cloak from his shoulders and tossed it aside.
He drew his lightsaber.
Paused.
Ignited it.
Paused.
And brought himself into a ready, defensive stance, saber high.
It was less of a fight and more of a kata.
The battle droid opened fire with both turret blasters at once, timed to the rhythm. And he responded with a whirl of blade. The lightsaber whipped through the air with precision, pinging, colliding. Blaster fire scorched into the dirt as it ricocheted.
A straight hit sent one back at the droid, puncturing a hole in the reinforced plating. It hit true and struck nothing of value.
Obi-Wan ducked. Slashed. Spun.
It wasn't danger-free, but the droid wasn't trying to kill him. It rained down fire exactly as it had a dozen times, and he felt his heart beating with the thrill of motion. His body moving with ease of memory. He swung up, batting a shot away, and settled his stance. A bit of sweat gathered at his hairline, and he brushed his fingers through his hair—the gesture caught on the jumbo screen that floated above the stands.
Holocams circled the arena, capturing everything.
Obi-Wan whirled the blade in one hand as the droid's blaster fire went quiet. Then he gestured to it. A come-on wave. Come get me.
The music in his ears shifted, and his pulse quickened in response.
He knew what came next, and it was no less intimidating the hundredth time.
The battle droid charged.
Its metal bulk hurtled forward as dirt sprayed behind it. And Obi-Wan, small by comparison, danced a pace aside and let it thunder by. Air clotted with grime filled his lungs. That was new. And he coughed as he thrust his saber into the thick plating as it passed.
Droids did not feel pain. But the metal treads screamed as they came loose. Joints and axels buckling.
Obi-Wan completed a spin, holding his sleeve across his face as his combatant clattered to a halt. Pieces of it lay in a bloodless trail, and the droid seemed to be reeling. Taking a breath. Obi-Wan wiped at his mouth, blinking dust from his eyes, and then brought his blade to a two-handed grip.
On cue, the turrets on the battle droid dropped out of sight. The undamaged tread released and collided with the ground with a force Obi-Wan felt in his knees. The massive bulk of the droid surged upward. The plating rotated. Shifted. Locked and lengthened. And Obi-Wan's eyes traveled up, up as the droid transformed before the galaxy.
A troop carrier tank into a metal man. A cyclops with one red-lens eye that rotated on top of its shoulders and focused, seemingly, on its prey. A sound like a crashing ocean wave swarmed over the music in Obi-Wan's ears, and he could only guess that it was Coruscant. Watching. Awed.
The battle droid held an arm out to each side. Crouched. And ignited two lightsabers of its own, fixed to its forearms like vambrace blades.
Again that roaring sound of a crowd.
But the music flowed, drove bass into his bones. And Obi-Wan was ready.
He lifted onto the balls of his feet and bounced to the rhythm.
One, and
Two, and
Three, and
Go!
He ran.
Five, and
Six, and
Darted left. A blaster shot.
Right. A hurled tread.
Eight, and
Force sang through his body as he closed the distance in a blur.
The droid swung, and their blades squawked against each other with a grinding flash of contact. The impact might have knocked him down if not for the power flowing through him. He shoved up, throwing off the hit, ducked from a quick counter, and turned to the second arm headed his way.
The strikes followed a pattern that only a Jedi trained in the dueling katas would recognize. It looked relentless. It was. But also predictable.
Obi-Wan swung. Connected. Ducked. Danced. He lost ground to the towering droid, driven back by the advantage of its size. By its precision. To an observer it would look like the tiny human was hopelessly outmatched. And the tension in the music broadcasting to the crowd would tell them so.
He stepped back and back.
And faltered when his heel struck a bit of tread that had fallen in the way.
Panic surged sharp and cold through him as he missed a connection and felt the heat of a blade pass dangerously close. He stumbled back and listened for the steps. Let the Force guide his instincts into place despite the sudden racing of his heart.
The droid kept coming.
Obi-Wan recovered his rhythm—parried a strike, a swipe.
And then he gathered the Force to his hand with a thought. The power already flowing through him diverted itself to thicken in response to his will. He struck the droid's blade aside and hurled a Force push at its chest with a roar.
There was no faking this part.
No way for the droid to assist in being hurtled back without ruining the mirage. Its feet needed to scrape the ground, lift real dust.
Obi-Wan recalled the way the Force felt when Aylee fed him power. The way her sense of it bled over. Cold rushing water. And he felt it now as power flowed down his arm. Held the droid mid-step.
It could have been a second.
Less.
He needed breathing room.
And with a step forward of his own, he punched his left hand toward his opponent.
A second Force push slammed into the battle droid, lifted it, and sent it a good thirty meters back. It seemed to move in slow motion. Its arms flailed, lightsabers flashing, but it corrected for its angle and landed on its feet still sliding, friction and momentum kicking up a plume.
Just as planned.
Obi-Wan let out an unsteady breath, light-headed from the effort, and took a moment to point the tip of his sword in the droid's direction. His heart thundered as the Force resumed its normal shape, feeding his limbs and senses. The crowd's cheers droned over the sound of the music in his ears, distant but audible, and his mouth turned up in a feral smile.
A beat.
Another.
And then he bounded into a run. Not a Force blur—because they wanted the audience to see him. See him turn the tables. Witness him chasing down a dangerous foe. The droid changed its stance and scraped its sabers against one another while it tracked the incoming assault.
Obi-Wan's breathing quickened.
He counted the steps, pounding across the arena.
Two . . .
One.
A little hop, and he sent himself into a slide. The Force whisked him farther, faster, so he slipped between the droid's legs. And before it could turn—
He righted himself, spun—
And nearly fell.
The world was—sideways.
Green. And sky. In the wrong orientation.
He let out a cry of alarm, blinking.
Something red flashed close, and he brought his lightsaber up to meet it.
Obi-Wan swung at empty air behind the battle droid's legs while it turned. He blinked and swiped at his eyes with his free hand while he stumbled back.
The battle droid rotated its torso and lunged for him. It came up short, also swiping at empty space. Like it didn't know where he was.
It didn't. He'd taken a step too many out of range.
Fear congealed in Obi-Wan's stomach, and he tried to focus on the arena. The guiding music struck him as noise, too much noise. He'd lost the beat and the place, and only vaguely remembered that he was supposed to dive back through under the droid's legs.
It made a quick jab in his direction, and he batted the hit away. Then dove into a somersault.
He came out of the roll too close, and the droid's swinging leg caught him in the shoulder. It knocked him sideways as his shoulder exploded with pain. He stumbled a few steps, trying to stay upright and whirled. Red pain. Beat beat. Roar and wailing in his ears.
Another flash, this time of paper-white skin and tattoos.
He shook off the vision, and, panting, lined himself up.
A red lightsaber slashed at his face, and he jolted to knock it away.
The droid's green blade flashed down at him, and only Force instinct let him duck.
Pain sliced across his thigh, and he jerked.
Another glimpse of grey stone and red blades.
He spun, parried, connected with nothing. Felt his heart in his throat.
Something was wrong. Wrong.
The battle droid was nowhere. The arena was nowhere. But he could smell the dust and hear the music.
He backed away, and his opponent swung at nothing.
One blink he could see the droid. And another, some place he didn't know.
Terror cracked his ribs.
And then, a sensation like flying. Like being pulled from the ground. Coruscant disappeared, and he was suddenly . . . nowhere. In a dream place. Around him, stacks from the Great Library pulsed. Shelves and shelves up until they melted into stars. The floor, the lounge on the Vesper. And to the left, beyond what he could see. Something pulled. Like hands clawing at him. Like a tide sucking him under. He couldn't see that way, like his eyes skipped over it when he tried. But the terror in his chest told him it was there.
Ben.
Aylee!
How had he not seen her on the ground? Sprawled, holding herself up on one arm.
Obi-Wan tried to move closer, but there was no movement. Even as he thought it, he could do nothing but watch.
Aylee, what's—
I'm sorry.
What?
She looked at him, her expression a rictus of regret.
I'm sorry, she said again.
His confusion sharpened into a wild creature. And he tried to look and not look at the empty thing just out of view. Cool presence touched his chest. And then it gripped. A feeling like the breath going out of him. Like his stomach being gouged out.
Aylee . . . tore the Force out of him. Funneled it into herself, and he watched some vision of her lurch and fling her free hand.
It hurt too much to speak or shout. To think as she pulled the power from him across the stars.
I love you.
And then cut the connection.
Obi-Wan fell.
Fell through space and galaxies. His awareness slamming back into his body with a disorientation of light and sound and pain. He was there only an instant. Hitting before falling again. Bouncing off a cliff of agony. His nerves caught fire everywhere at once. It blotted out sound.
His knees hit the dirt. Lightsaber rolled useless from limp fingers.
And his body hollowed out in a scream.
He did not see the battle droid raising its weapon for a fatal blow.
Did not witness his apprentice leap from the control room, jumping from holocam to holocam as he raced down the stands toward the arena.
He did not see Anakin jump and hurl himself for the droid's head. Or his body swing from momentum as his lightsaber bit into the hull.
He did not notice the sheering tortured sound of metal as the boy's weight dragged the saber through the giant's core.
He did not feel the shake and thunder as the cleaved and sparking halves fell into the dust.
He did not hear the crowd explode with shocked joy at the surprise heroism—unaware of how close death had truly come.
He shook. Curled trembling over the emptiness and gasped when Anakin touched his shoulder.
"Master?"
Obi-Wan wheezed and tried to lift his face. Every breath came out as sobs, and it did not occur to him to fight it.
Anakin quickly masked his own panic and after a quick assessment, grabbed Obi-Wan's dropped saber from the dust and clipped it to his own belt. He knelt and carefully slid himself under one arm. Obi-Wan let himself be lifted, and they made their way out of the arena to glorious applause.
Obi-Wan couldn't feel the ground beneath his feet.
And by the time they had passed under the stands and back into the staging area, he started to shiver. His ribs ached from breathing, and tears rolled down his cheeks when he blinked. Silent. All so silent.
They stopped, and his dulled senses took too long to register that fact. Even longer to register that someone was saying his name.
"Obi-Wan." Master Windu's voice, sounding grave. Concerned.
His head wobbled as he lifted it, and Master Windu's face did an odd, distressed thing he'd never recalled it doing before.
"Something's happened. We received an emergency transmission from Tir-Zen Gil."
Obi-Wan's heart lurched. He hadn't— He hadn't even thought— "Tir-Zen. Is he—"
"Hurt. On his way back. But . . . Master Desai . . ."
"I know."
A second later, Anakin drew a sharp breath. Mace had the decency to look pained. Obi-Wan's gaze fell to the ground, and he twitched and trembled in the silence.
Master Windu cleared his throat. "Obi-Wan, I—"
"Came to tell me you were right?" He said, no fire in it. Barely enough breath to be heard. He understood, vaguely, that they had crossed signals. Shared pains and visions during a fight.
That—
That he had—
That the blow to the shoulder might have—
He pressed his eyes shut.
Mace regarded him for a moment, calm, perhaps even slightly sad. "I'm sorry," he said.
Obi-Wan glanced up to stare at him, unsure of what to say. Anakin adjusted his grip, jostling them both and tightening his hold.
Master Windu glanced at the boy. "Anakin, take your master home to rest. We'll finish up here."