PART TWO: TIES THAT BIND
Chapter Seven: A Mysterious Summons
As Obi-Wan placed a palm against the Old Library door, the absence of the lightsaber that usually hung from his belt was enough to give him pause. The comlink missing from his pocket he could forgive—but parting from this lightsaber was not something he often did. Not since Serenno.
He hadn't built the weapon alone, the way most Jedi constructed their sabers. Nor had he built it out of necessity—he'd still had a perfectly good lightsaber at the time, as had the man who'd helped him piece together this one. They'd assembled it as a duo, joking as they slotted pieces into the machined cylinder of the saber hilt about which of them would be the first to need "the backup."
The answer, it turned out, had been Obi-Wan. He'd retrieved it from the armory of the Spice Dancer as the ship hurtled toward Serenno. Not long after, the backup saber had clashed against the weapon of a Sith Lord. To this day, he kept it by his side.
It—along with its elder brother, sitting even now in the chest in Obi-Wan's quarters—was all he had left of Anakin.
Sighing, he shoved the door inward and crossed the threshold into the most ancient room in the Jedi Archives. Technology was forbidden between these walls. A ceremonial tradition Master Nu was quite fond of—meant to free the Jedi scholars from any possible distraction, so they might more closely touch the Force as they read the ancient texts. Obi-Wan could not deny there was a warmth here—one lacking in the rest of the Archives, whose shelves had long since been overtaken by the clinical blinking lights of databank towers and computer terminals.
There was also an eerie silence, a stillness to the air. He was alone—one Jedi standing amidst a thousand generations of knowledge. He approached one of the towering shelves and gazed closer at its volumes. Leather spines, cracked by centuries of weathering, protruded from the carved wood. Leaning forward, Obi-Wan placed the tip of his nose against the spine of one ancient book and inhaled.
The scent of the Old Library never quite managed to rouse within him the feelings of nostalgia most of his Jedi colleagues spoke of. The books he'd grown up on, stored as they were in Yoda's hut, smelled significantly more musty. But Obi-Wan could not deny the pleasant aroma of the texts.
"I thought only the scholars came back here."
He fought his instinct to startle at the voice—instead, he slowly pulled away from the bookshelf and turned to face his fellow Jedi. "That makes two of us who are out of place, then," Obi-Wan said, cocking his head to one side and raising an eyebrow. When the Mirialan woman across the room offered a warm smile, he nodded his head in the slightest bow and returned one of his own. "Hello, Luminara."
"Master Kenobi," she said, keeping her voice hushed as though someone else were waiting around the corner to offer a stern shh!—though none came. A brief outward stretch of Obi-Wan's senses confirmed it; the two master Knights were alone.
"What brings you to the Old Library?" he asked, raising his hands in a half shrug, half sweeping gesture, as if the shelves of ancient tomes were his to showcase.
Something seemed to tug at the corners of Luminara's mouth, as though she were suppressing another smile. "Looking for you, actually."
At this, Obi-Wan couldn't help but chuckle. "I thought only scholars came back here. Why would you expect to find me?"
"You're not as sneaky as your old partner, Obi-Wan." Luminara took a step forward, tracing a fingertip along the edge of a bookshelf as she walked. "I saw you slip back here." The Mirialan paused, biting the inside of her cheek in apparent hesitation before continuing. "When the students arrived inside the Archives for their group lesson."
This made Obi-Wan's heart skip a beat. He wouldn't have minded someone simply noticing that he had left the room. That Luminara had picked up on the why of it was another matter entirely.
Two years on, it still hurt to watch. The warm smiles between teacher and apprentice, the knowing glances and unspoken exchanges that could only happen between a Jedi Knight and their Master. And inevitably, when he was around a group of students for too long, someone would ask the question he couldn't stand to hear.
When are you taking another student, Master Jedi?
They all meant well, of course, but the question stung the same—and the answer hadn't changed. He wasn't ready. There were days where he wondered if he'd ever been ready—if perhaps that had been precisely the root of the problem.
And besides, he'd confided to Qui-Gon one of the scattered times they'd spoken since she'd left Coruscant, I don't trust myself not to take someone as a . . . as a replacement for Anakin. It wouldn't be fair to either of us.
So, as the students of the Force and their teachers had assembled in the Archives, Obi-Wan had handed over his lightsaber and commlink and retreated to the Old Library. With Lumniara now standing before him, he couldn't help but wonder if he'd pulled the same trick a few too many times.
Evidently sensing his tension, Luminara held up an open palm. "Fear not, Obi-Wan. That isn't why I'm here." She glanced over her shoulder, her ornamental headdress flowing with the motion. "I just needed to catch you away from prying eyes for a moment. There's something you need to see."
His face scrunched for just a moment, confusion washing over him—only for intense curiosity to replace it. What could Luminara possibly have for him that no one else was supposed to know about? Forcing himself to appear casual, he shifted his weight to his back foot and gestured toward her with an open hand. "All right. Show me."
"I can't. Not here." She glanced from one wall to the other, bookshelf to towering bookshelf. "No technology allowed, remember?" At this, she reached out to the shelf nearest her and plucked a glass cube from its resting place, turning it over in her hand. The cube—an ancient Jedi holocron—glinted in the light as it shifted back and forth. Raising her eyes to look at Obi-Wan, she offered him a shrug. "Not that I begrudge the tradition. There are other places to meet that'll keep the eavesdroppers out. Come find us; we'll be waiting for you in the map room."
"Us?"
"You'll see." Turning the glasswork prism over in her hand one final time, she tossed it across the room at Obi-Wan. "Don't dally, Master Kenobi."
Acting on instinct more than anything else, he snatched the holocron out of the air as it sailed toward him. When he looked back up Luminara had disappeared.
He stood there for a moment, simply existing in the state of solitude he'd returned to, and weighed the old holocron in his hand. Even these were devoid of any technology, lacking the holoprojectors and data storage of a modern Jedi holocron. The Jedi Knights of generations past would carry them in the field, using the light-bending lenses found within to encrypt and decode messages.
As he held it high, the curves of the crystalline interior warped the light passing through the holocron. Some Jedi said if you stared long enough, looked closely enough, that you could still see the mysteries of the past embedded within the transparent cube. Obi-Wan wasn't sure if it was true, but for now it hardly mattered. Moving across the library floor, its old wood creaking as he walked, he gently lowered the old glass holocron back into its resting place atop a shelf.
The old mysteries would have to wait. A new one lay before him. Quickening his pace, he rushed out of the Old Library, snatching up his lightsaber and commlink and making his way toward the map room of the Jedi Temple.
It was time to find out what awaited him there.
The shadow of the Dancer was one among many, space vessels shrouded in the darkness of the blacked-out garage. Their silhouettes looked vaguely threatening in the low light—a mishmash of gently curving star yachts and boxy, angular cargo tugs looming in rows.
It looks like the pirate fleet, Anakin thought with a shudder.
Before the attacks, the ship garage had looked more like a showroom—harsh, even lighting, intended to offer visibility even in the dead of night and ward off would-be burglars, normally shone down from the ceiling in perfectly patterned stripes. Now, with rolling blackouts meant to conserve power while the capitol district recovered—and offworld travel limited to all but the most essential government business—a private ship garage had little reason to keep the lights on.
Anakin hadn't visited the Spice Dancer's home since before the attacks, and probably wouldn't have now were it not for a note he'd discovered. He'd returned home to an empty apartment, a hand-scrawled scrap of paper resting prominently on the dining room table's centerpiece. The script, unmistakably Padmé's handwriting, read simply: "Meet me on the Dancer."
Now he walked toward the rear of the garage, their ship's assigned parking spot still visible in what little evening light leaked through from outside. The boarding ramp was already lowered, a power cable snaking up—meant to provide energy to the ship's most critical systems even if the engine were powered down. Stepping over the coiled cord as he ascended the ramp, Anakin pressed his mechanical thumb into the entry hatch's activator button.
The interior reminded him all too much of the lower cargo decks of Junkfort Station. Boxes of miscellaneous parts and unorganized tools were strewn about. The vessel's main lights were offline, the space instead lit by crisscrossed beams from portable worklamps. In the shadow of one such emergency light, Anakin could see Padmé's unmistakable silhouette leaning against the galley table.
"Hey, stranger," she said.
Anakin thumbed the hatch's activator again—as it swished shut behind him, he rushed toward her, leaning down to her height and keeping his voice low.
"Did you sneak past the Coruscant Guard to get here? This district's under curfew!"
She shrugged, shoving away from the table and stepping fully into the cone of light cast by the worklamp. "More fun that way, isn't it?"
He opened his mouth to protest—the rules may have been restrictive, but they were only temporary, and they were what kept Coruscant safe as they sought to rebuild—but thought better of it after only a moment. There was no sense starting a fight; he'd only just arrived. Besides, she had a point—it was a little fun. Remember fun, Skywalker?
Instead, he asked the question that had bugged him since he'd found her note on the dining table back home. "What are you doing out here?"
"It's funny," she began, wandering past him to the center of the galley, "I lost track of the number of times I told her to shut up over the years. Now that she's gone, the apartment's too quiet."
He couldn't argue. The nights he'd spent working hadn't been only to stay away from a home left silent by the droid's absence, but that emptiness . . . lingered. "We could move," he offered with a shrug—but even as the words left his mouth he knew he didn't mean them. The capitol district was still rebuilding the housing that had been lost during the attacks on Coruscant. There wasn't anywhere to move to.
Padmé, it seemed, had the same thought. "That's not happening right now, and you know it," she said, glancing down at the deck and dragging a foot along it.
"We'll live on the Dancer, then," Anakin said, falling back into his old grin and trying to mean it. "It'll be just like old times."
And it would be, in all senses of that phrase. For all the years they'd owned it, the Spice Dancer had, out of necessity, existed in a state of perpetual repair. He and Padmé had never been able to stop in one place long enough to really fix the thing—until they'd both moved to Coruscant. Even then, work had kept them busy enough that the project was moving at a snail's pace. A few months back, the couple had finally gotten the courage to completely gut the vessel's engine and replace every broken or damaged part. They'd even gotten most of the way done.
Then the attacks started.
Anakin, for his part, had come to accept that the only way the Dancer was ever leaving the garage was in parts—or on the back of a cargo tug. There was simply too much wrong with it at this point, and sourcing parts in a recovering warzone was all but impossible.
So, when Padmé took his flesh hand inside her own and dragged him back toward the engine room, saying simply, "Funny you should mention that," his curiosity was more than piqued.
"I got you something," she said as they stood at the door to the heart of the Dancer. "Go ahead, open it up."
Extending his mechanical hand toward the engine room door, Anakin felt a quiver of anticipation. Shoving the door aside, he stared at the behemoth that was the Dancer's engine. Sitting atop it was a shiny piece of metal about the size of his forearm, wrapped in a little red bow.
"No way!" he shouted, a childlike excitement washing over him as he dashed into the engine room and snatched the ship part off the top of the engine. "You found a new phase inverter! They don't even make these anymore." He paused, turning slowly to face Padmé. "Who'd you have to swindle to get it?"
She stood there with arms crossed, leaning into the doorframe at the threshold of the engine room, and chuckled. "If I told you that, I'd have to kill you," she said—and after a moment, they were both giggling.
"Wish I could've been there to see you work your magic," he muttered under his breath, turning the phase inverter over in his hand. The servomotors of his arm whirred as he felt the weight of the part and admired the way it sparkled in the light of the worklamps. It looked brand new—either Padmé had worked her ass off scrubbing the thing clean once she'd found it, or she'd pulled one hell of a con to snag a new one.
"What're you waiting for, Skywalker? Slot it in, I wanna see if it works."
He stared back at her and raised an eyebrow. "You haven't tested it yet?"
She scoffed. "It's your present."
"Fair enough." Tugging at one end of the bow, he allowed the red fabric to flutter to the deck of the engine room. He found his hands gravitating to the spot on the engine where the old phase inverter used to be—though the slot for the part was empty, he could still picture the charred lump of metal that had once lived there, and had somehow miraculously functioned far longer than it should have.
His heart fluttered as he wedged the engine part in place, bracing himself for something to send sparks flying in his face or cause smoke to rise from the engine. Nothing happened, and Anakin exhaled a sigh of relief.
"Ready to spin her up?" Padmé asked—as Anakin looked back at her, she shoved away from the doorframe and stepped into the engine room.
"Let's do it."
The two of them had performed the startup sequence of the Spice Dancer so many times it had become a rehearsed dance. They moved around one another effortlessly, plugging in wires and throwing levers, until they came together to complete the final task—throwing the hulking master switch against the far wall of the engine room.
"We're cut off from the garage's external power," Padmé said. "Let's see if she's got any life in her now."
Anakin's thumb moved toward the intercom panel beside the master switch. Pressing it in, he called out: "Okay, Liz, we're ready down here. Stand by for—"
Dammit.
A rehearsed dance, Anakin realized, was bound to hit a snag when one of the dancers was missing.
Suddenly Padmé's hand was on his shoulder, her dark eyes gazing up at his. "You okay?" she asked, the catch in her voice more noticeable for the effort she was putting in to hide it.
"I'm fine," he said, shoving down the emotions rising within him. "Let's just keep going."
So they did. A countdown from three. A heaving of the master switch with clenched fists and gritted teeth. A whoop of joy as, for the first time in months, the Spice Dancer came to life. Their droid may have been lost, but their ship still lived—so Padmé and Anakin wrapped each other up in a squeezing embrace.
Anakin lost track of time as they stood there, arms around each other—until Padmé loosened her grip. With that, he slipped away, back out into the main hall of the ship. Padmé followed closely behind him.
"Huh," was all he said when he emerged into the galley.
"What's wrong?" she asked, looking up at him.
He couldn't quite put his finger on it. The worklamps, which had been connected to external garage power, now stood dormant on their tripod stands. Instead the overhead lighting of the Dancer shone bright, painting the galley in even brushstrokes of illumination.
"I think I liked it better when half the lights didn't work," he joked. Not a day had gone by when he hadn't regretted taking up the Alderaan royal family on their offer to restore the ship's interior. It was too clean, too polished, too bright. He missed the rust and the exposed wiring and the one spot in the corner of the galley where you couldn't see a thing.
The sound of shattering glass followed by metal impacting metal tore him from his reminiscing, and his mechanical arm shot up to cover his face as shards of a lighting panel rained down on him. "What the hell?"
His eyes darted from Padmé, to the ceiling, to a hydrospanner that was now rolling about on the deck. Anakin watched as his wife snatched another tool off the dining table, and wound it up to throw it at the ceiling.
Reaching out to snatch her wrist, he shot Padmé a look of disbelief. "What do you think you're doing?"
"It's our ship," she said with a shrug. "If you liked the broken lights better, let's break the lights." He let go of her wrist, and she threw a wrench at the ceiling.
There it was again—that overly dark corner of the galley, now home to a dented tool and a pile of broken glass. Anakin chuckled. That's our girl.
Turning to gaze at the impeccably maintained galley bulkhead, he reached out with his metal hand and tore a panel from the wall. "Exposed wiring always was one of her defining features," he said, tossing the piece of paneling to the deck and turning back toward Padmé.
"Agreed," she said, moving forward within the ship and grabbing another wall panel. When she'd wrenched it free of its housing, she jammed a fist into the hole she'd made and tore out a handful of wiring. "And if every electrical connection is working, is it really the Spice Dancer?"
"Definitely not," he answered, moving forward to meet her. Drawing his blaster from the holster on his belt, he lined up a shot and pulled the trigger. The bolt left a smoldering gash in the corridor wall, and the stench of burning ship interior tickled Anakin's nose. He glanced over at his wife, raising an eyebrow as if to say your turn.
She did exactly what he hoped she would, quickdrawing her own firearm and leaving an identical burn mark in the opposite wall.
They stood there for a moment, simply admiring their handiwork, then turned to face each other and locked eyes. Blasters clattered to the floor, and their lips met in a kiss.
The sudden whirlwind seemed to pull the world inward—nothing outside the hull of their ship existed. As they dragged each other forward, toward the nose of the vessel and the sleeping cabins it held, there were only the two of them and the Spice Dancer.
Lips still locked together, Anakin and Padmé moved into their cabin and slammed the door behind them.
The crackle of fire and a glare of blinding light welcomed Obi-Wan into the Jedi Temple map room. He squinted against the onslaught, lifting up a hand to shield his eyes until they had a chance to adjust. When the glow faded, he could just make out the silhouette of Luminara beneath her headdress.
He took a few steps further into the room, glancing down to see the warped projection of a star chart across his robes. The map room was one of the oldest structures still in use within the Jedi Temple, the technology that powered it dating back hundreds of years. The projection of maps was achieved with a torch and a magnifying lens; the maps themselves were etched into slates of glass, transparent snapshots of the galaxy and its numerous planets from eras stretching back to the founding of the Order. The walls and floor were featureless, meant to function only as projection screens that could be walked beside—or upon.
Still squinting against the light, Obi-Wan addressed the silhouette. "All right, I'm here. What map did you want to show me?" As he spoke, he turned so the torch-powered projector was at his back, and took in the full scope of the galaxy's glowing image.
"Not a map, Obi-Wan," Luminara corrected, emerging from the shadow and stepping into the projector's light alongside him. "A message. We intercepted something that came through the communication network, addressed to you."
He shot the Mirialan a sideways glance, scrunching his brow. "Opening other people's mail, are we?"
"Didn't open!" a new voice piped up from the shadows at the back of the map room. "Merely saw who sent it. Enough cause for concern." Its tone shrill, its rhythm a singsong staccato, Obi-Wan knew the voice could only belong to the Jedi Order's Duros quartermaster.
As the voice's owner emerged from the glare beneath the projector, Obi-Wan couldn't help but offer a pleasant chuckle. "Hello, Qlik." He could see the Duros brandishing a handheld holoprojector in his grip, and nodded toward the device. "What have we here?"
"Your message. Scanned for safety. No trackers, no listening devices. May I?" Qlik gestured toward the floor of the map room, and Obi-Wan nodded an affirmative. As the Duros tossed the device to the ground, it came to life with a blue-green glow.
For a brief moment, the official seal of the Senate filled the air between the three Jedi. Cause for concern indeed, Obi-Wan thought as the emblem dissipated, replaced by a life-size projection of a protocol droid.
"This message is for the eyes of Obi-Wan Kenobi only, and should be viewed when alone. If you are not alone, please pause the message and relocate to a private area. Thank you."
Obi-Wan's eyes flitted to Luminara, then to Qlik. The former waved a dismissive hand; the latter simply stared, his bulbous red eyes reflecting the holographic image.
"Greetings, esteemed former general Obi-Wan Kenobi of Alderaan. I am RE-925, administrative assistant to the Director of the Office of Special Investigations. This message is an official summons. Within one week's time, you are to appear before an interview panel at the Office of Special Investigations headquarters to answer questions pertaining to the investigation of the Confederacy of Independent Systems' attack on Coruscant.
"Your participation in this investigation is critical to the continued security of the Republic. We thank you in advance for your cooperation."
As the image of the droid faded away and was replaced again by the Senate seal, Obi-Wan said: "Oh."
"Wait, I don't understand," said Luminara, her voice strangely monotone—Obi-Wan noticed she wasn't addressing him, but was instead staring daggers at Qlik. "What's the Office of Special Investigations?"
Before Qlik could speak, Obi-Wan jumped in to save him. "It's a government agency. Bail Organa told me about it, back when he was still chancellor."
"Yes, thank you, Obi-Wan. I gathered that much," she said, her gaze landing on him. "What does this agency do?"
"It's kept dormant," he began, reaching back into his memory, "unstaffed until the need arises for a highly sensitive internal investigation. The Chancellor can activate the agency with Senate approval, or it can be done by the chairperson of the Committee on Criminal Justice. I think."
Luminara whirled to glare at Qlik again. "You didn't tell me he was being accused of a crime!" Her raised voice echoed throughout the map room.
"Not accused!" Qlik said, raising a pointed finger in the air. "Interviewed as part of an open criminal investigation. Different things." With that same pointed finger, he gestured toward the dormant holoprojector. "The message was careful to accuse him of nothing."
"Yes, and I imagine that caution will remain in place until they feel they have something solid," Obi-Wan muttered, raising a hand to his chin. "I just don't understand. I wasn't involved in the battle. The Coelacanth was, but I haven't commanded her crew in years—"
"You didn't do anything?" Luminara asked. The question was not one of accusation, but genuine curiosity, the harshness fading from her voice. "Fight off clones with your lightsaber? Use the Force to rescue someone from a burning building? People notice things, Master Kenobi."
He hesitated—best to tell them, get it on the table now?—then shook his head. "It doesn't matter. We need to call the Masters together for a council, hold a vote on how to handle—"
"No!" The sharp shout came from Qlik, who had stepped closer to Obi-Wan as the word left his mouth. His already wide eyes had grown even wider, and his aura in the Force radiated pure urgency. "Exactly the thing we should not do."
"Qlik, are you sure?" Luminara asked, turning to face the Duros—concern was painted across her face. Obi-Wan got the distinct impression he was witnessing the continuation of a conversation the pair had already had, one he'd not been present for.
"This changes nothing," said the quartermaster, bouncing off each word like someone striking a hammer. Holding his open palms toward the ceiling, Qlik turned to face Obi-Wan. "Incredible opportunity awaits us inside that office. Placing a Jedi within the Office of Special Investigations has proved . . . problematic."
Obi-Wan nodded slowly as understanding dawned on him. "And they've just sent a personal invitation to one."
"Precisely," Qlik replied, gesturing along with the word as if he was conducting an orchestra. "Risky, yes, but a chance to discover what they're up to. A chance we won't get again."
"Especially with people like Drallig more focus on enemies out there than concerns . . . closer to home," Luminara put in.
"And if we hold a vote in council—"
"They'll tell you not to go," Luminara finished for him. "Everyone will want you to hole up here and hide from the investigation." She turned to look at the Duros. "You're right, this changes nothing."
Obi-Wan, lost in thought, barely registered this last exchange. They were right, of course—he had to do it. And at any rate he couldn't very well hide from a government investigation. But there were so many unknowns. What awaited him in that office? What did they really want to know? Had the Republic somehow uncovered his identity as a Jedi?
Did Anakin he began, and then slammed a boot down on the thought before it could finish.
"Master Obi-Wan?" Qlik's voice cut through the questions swirling in Obi-Wan's head.
"Ah, yes, I'm sorry. I'll do it, of course, it's just—"
"There might be another way," Luminara interrupted. Each word left her mouth slowly, measured—as if she were coming up with the thought even as she spoke it. "Or at least a way for you to be more prepared. You said the Chancellor can activate this special investigation?"
"Or the chair of the Justice Committee, yes. Why?"
"Maybe Skywalker knows something."
It took all the effort in the world for Obi-Wan to keep the pain he felt from showing on his face—and he couldn't keep it all from seeping into his voice. "Luminara, I haven't spoken to Anakin since . . ."
He trailed off. It felt as though the air had left the room.
"I'm sorry," she replied. "I just thought it might be helpful. I want you going in there as prepared as possible."
"Yes," Qlik added. "We both do."
Placing her hand on Qlik's shoulder to guide him forward, Luminara moved toward the map room's exit. "We'll give you some space," she said. "I assume we're all on the same page, here—none of this is spoken of outside this room, yes?"
"Of course," Obi-Wan said with a robotic nod, his mind a parsec away.
"Before you depart, let me know," Qlik said as Duros and Mirialan made for the door. "Want to keep an eye on you. As much as I can, anyway."
They were gone before Obi-Wan had a chance to respond.
He stood there in silence so long he lost track of time. It was all too much to take in. He found himself wishing Qui-Gon was with him. Or Master Yoda. Or Padmé.
But he'd made a promise. None of this was to leave the room—unless, of course, he could find out more from his former student.
Stretching a hand out toward the floor, he snatched up the miniature holoprojector as it sailed into his palm. If there were a special investigation going on, perhaps he should do some investigating of his own.
And for that, he needed to speak to an old friend.
Well, he thought as he strode toward the door, his shoulders broadening as determination filled his mind, I suppose it's time to reunite Kenobi and Skywalker.
The Spice Dancer had always had a way of breaking down at the least convenient times. Whether it was halfway through smuggling guns along the Corellian Run, or in the sky above Had Abbadon sandwiched between Confederate frigates, the ship had a penchant for putting Anakin and Padmé in rather inconvenient situations.
You think you'd be used to this by now, Padmé scolded herself as she bolted back toward the cockpit ladder at the aft of the ship. She barely had time to throw a glance behind her and see that Anakin was stumbling down the hallway fiddling with his shirt buttons.
"Just leave it off!" she shouted back at him, running one hand through her unkempt hair as she grabbed a ladder rung with the other.
Only minutes prior, a maintenance alarm had sent them scrambling out of the cabin, rushing to get dressed in time to stop the ship from exploding. Padmé's best guess, which she'd shared with Anakin as whatever shards of romance remained between them dissolved into sheer panic, was that the newly installed phase inverter hadn't been properly discharged. To fix that, they'd need to run the ship's entire startup sequence from the cockpit. And they'd need to do it fast.
Nearly falling to the deck as she reached the ladder's peak, Padmé crawled into the Dancer's captain's chair and spun it into place. A half-shirtless Anakin was right on her heels, settling into the co-pilot seat. The couple locked eyes, nodded at each other, and in unison shouted, "Go!"
They'd run the preflight startup more times than she could count—their rhythmic back-and-forth of shouting system names and flipping switches was more of a well-oiled machine than the ship itself. Anakin would call out the name of a critical component, and her hand would snap to the button for it as though she were a droid whose only purpose was powering up starships.
On and on this rhythm continued, a perfectly synchronized routine. Neither one of them was thinking, they were simply acting as one.
Finally they'd arrived. Padmé braced for the final step—the throttling of the engines. They didn't have time to discuss it beforehand—even now, the pace of the alarm klaxon was quickening at a worrying rate—but actually throwing the Dancer's throttle all the way open would do little more than slam them into the garage wall. She hoped to the gods that she and Anakin were on the same wavelength—this was only a dry run, meant to do nothing more than save the ship's power system from overloading.
"Mixture?" Anakin shouted, sending Padmé's hand gravitating toward the lever which controlled it.
"Set!" she yelled back, bracing herself for the next step.
"Throttle!"
Their hands both shot toward the dual levers—one for the port engine nacelle, the other for the starboard—and moved forward a fraction of an inch in perfect sync.
The idle hum of the Spice Dancer's engines rumbled throughout the cockpit; Anakin and Padmé both let out a sigh of relief that morphed into nervous laughter.
"You know," she said, "we always pull it off, but I really wasn't sure about that one."
"Definitely the most . . . compromising time the Dancer's ever gone critical on us," Anakin said with a snicker, his mechanical hand moving to finish buttoning his shirt. "Although," he continued, dragging out the word, "if we had blown up, at least we would've died satisfied."
Padmé punched him in the shoulder.
Leaning back in the captain's chair, she spun it around in a lazy circle, watching as her husband rose to his feet.
"Too bad we went to all the trouble of starting up the ship," Anakin said. "We can't actually fly anywhere."
At this, she spun back to face out the cockpit window—though all she saw was the inside of the ship garage, her imagination turned the view into a million pinpricks of light, the stars of spaceflight turning into the starlines of hyperspace. "Who says we can't?" she muttered, mostly to herself.
"You serious?"
She swiveled in the chair to face him. "I mean, I wasn't, but . . . sure. Liz is gone, the city's full of rubble, and neither of us can sleep in our own apartment. Why not just . . . go somewhere?" The more she said, the more it seemed like the exact thing they needed right now.
"There's a no-fly restriction, for one," Anakin answered, holding up a finger as though he was about to launch into a numbered list of reasons.
"And since when has that ever bothered legendary flyboy Anakin Skywalker?" Padmé shot back with a smirk. "Come on, we can outrun them."
For a moment he looked tempted. Then he sighed. "We'd just divert patrols from the areas that need them."
Oh for gods' sake, she thought, her enthusiasm slowly draining away as she realized he hadn't simply been playing the straight man. He meant it.
And of course she knew why. "Oh, right," she said against her better judgement, the cold water that had been poured over her head leaking into her voice. "No rest for the wicked when you work for Chancellor Government Overreach."
"The city was attacked, Padmé," Anakin said, his voice suddenly mannered—she could tell he was trying his best to keep his cool. "A no-fly order is a perfectly reasonable security measure at a time like this."
I know what you've been feeling tonight isn't fake, you idiot, she wanted to shoot back. And I know why you're saying this now when a few years ago you would have been the one making the stupid plan. Instead, she simply muttered, "Wow, okay, nice to see you'll parrot the talking points even when you aren't on the news."
She saw the anger flash across Anakin's eyes, and could just make out the sound of grinding metal as he clenched his mechanical fist—but he was simply quiet for a moment. "Besides," he finally said, as though she hadn't spoken at all, "I can't just up and leave." He paused, exhaling through his nose, and continued—his voice was softer now. "Not tonight. I have a work thing."
As the final words filled the air, Anakin glanced down at the deck.
"A work thing?" Padmé echoed back at him, raising an eyebrow. "Weren't you all concerned that we were out here breaking curfew? How are you even allowed to have a work event later tonight?"
"Hey, Palpatine signed a new order lifting curfews in a few districts just this afternoon," Anakin said, his voice falling into a singsong register that left Padmé wanting to smack him. The worst part was his face—his expression was as guileless as ever. Bastard doesn't even realize how smug he's being.
Shaking her head, she laughed. "Oh, I see how it is. He lifts the curfew in the capitol entertainment district so he can go to the opera, right?"
She'd meant it as a joke—one at Palpatine's expense that perhaps even Anakin could have had a laugh at. The dead-eyed stare on her husband's face told her she'd maybe hit a little too close to the mark.
"Oh gods," she continued when he'd been silent for too long. "That's not actually where you're going tonight, is it?"
"We're done talking about this," Anakin snapped, whirling around to face the access ladder.
"Yeah, I guess we are," Padmé fired back, spinning her chair to face the Dancer's viewport. "Just get out of here. I'll take care of shutting down the ship." She paused, listening as Anakin's footfalls hit successively lower rungs of the ladder. When he was far enough away that she was confident he was actually leaving, but still close enough to hear, she added, "Wouldn't want you to be late for the show!"
Something below deck—Padme wasn't sure what, though she could tell by the noise that it was made of metal—slammed into a bulkhead. Seconds later, the whoosh of the ship's access door sounded twice in quick succession. Anakin was gone.
Easing the throttle backwards just a hair, Padmé brought the Dancer's engines back into their idle state. Then, with the weight of sorrow slowing their movements, her hands went through the shutdown checklist as automatically as they'd started the ship up.
Only when the last switch on the control board had been toggled off, and the lights of the cockpit had flickered out, did Padmé allow a tear to roll down her cheek.
For the rest of the evening, she sat alone in the cockpit and cried.
As his speeder's engines roared to life, Anakin punched at the steering yoke with his mechanical hand and swore. It wasn't fair, he thought, hating the inanity of the sentence even as it crossed through his mind, just for once things had been back to the way they were and she'd had to ruin it the way she always, always did when things even strayed to the subject of Palpatine—
Breathe, said a voice in his head that wasn't his. Just breathe. Let it go.
Clenching his fists shut, he slowly, carefully inhaled. Closed his eyes. Let the breath out in one long exhalation. The next inhalation came a little easier, a little calmer.
But then his eyes snapped open again. It was all wrong—the breathing was pushing some of the anger away, but this was a Jedi exercise, and the voice, he realized too late, was a memory of Obi-Wan. And when he'd pushed his emotions away—purged his head of himself and opened it to the beyond—there would be nothing. No sensations of the living world around him, no vibrations of something greater reaching out and touching him. Just infinite, meaningless nothing.
Still, even with the exercise unfinished, enough of the fog of anger had begun to dissipate that he felt a mortified sheepishness creep in. Of course she'd joked, that's what Padmé did, isn't that why you fell in love with her you damn fool Skywalker oh god. It was his fault. All of it.
He almost got out of the cockpit at that moment. Almost marched back to the ship and knocked on the door til she let him in, then apologized.
But then, unbidden, her voice rose in his memory. Wouldn't want you to be late for the show!
All the sleepless nights he'd spent at work, or on the way home from work, helping to allocate resources and carry word from the chancellor to the Coruscant Guard and back again. All the brave people he knew who'd fallen—who were still falling—to clone ambushes, who'd been in the path of the Charybdis when it came down. All the years etched into Palpatine's face, the slight tremble in his voice when he grew tired, the hollows under his eyes from the sheer exhaustion of staying up nearly as often as Anakin did to try to do what needed to be done to make the planet safer.
And she thought it was all to satisfy Palpatine's whims.
No matter what he did, it would never be enough. No matter what Palpatine sacrificed, it would never be enough.
He should have stormed back. Shouted at her that no, there was no show, he'd been asked to attend a vital intelligence meeting. Let her sit with her accusation and feel guilty. But even as the childish thought crossed his mind, it died.
Instead, an overwhelming desire welled within him to talk with Palpatine. To look into the man's fatherly eyes as he reassured Anakin that of course, what they did mattered. Was saving lives.
But he couldn't, not yet. The meeting wasn't set to start for another three hours yet—something he hadn't had time to explain before he was off the Dancer and storming for his speeder. And right now if he had to spend three hours killing time he thought he would scream.
A faint tinnitus ring had filled his ears, and he shook his head to try and clear it. Now that was odd—in all the times he'd been angry in the past, never once had it been enough to induce ringing in—
Wait. It wasn't his ears at all. It was his comm.
The nasty part of him, a part he was ashamed of even as it spoke, told him it was probably Padmé calling to apologize. Told him not to take it. But then he breathed out, one more time, and Anakin Skywalker flooded back in. Anakin Skywalker wasn't about to refuse to answer his comm—not when it could be Palpatine, or the Coruscant Guard, or someone else asking for help that he could provide. Switching it to Accept with his flesh hand, he cleared his throat and spoke. "Hello?"
"I. Ah . . . hello, Anakin."
It was the voice that had left a message on his comm what seemed like an eternity ago. The voice that had spoken in his head just moments before.
Anakin was suddenly intensely aware of his body—his mouth gone instantly dry, his heart hammering beneath his breastplate, his cheeks flushing red. Before he could weigh a response, he'd simply breathed out, "Obi-Wan."
Silence persisted on either end of the call for several seconds. Before he could convince himself this was a dream, something unreal, Anakin forced himself to speak again. "I—it's great to hear from you. It's . . . it's great to hear from you."
Obi-Wan's reply came all in a rush, as though he were afraid if he didn't get it out it wouldn't come. "I know you must be extremely busy, but if you have a moment—would you care to catch up? At . . . well, at my place. Not the Temple, my . . . well, proper residence. I don't know that you've ever been. I haven't been there, for a long . . . anyway, I've got some, erm, mechanical problems I've been working on and I could use a hand . . ."
Once again, the line was silent. Then Obi-Wan said, quietly, "It's been far too long. I'm sorry for that."
All the words that had run through his head, that he'd wanted to say to his old friend these last two years, passed across his tongue. You bastard, why did you wait so long, or Did I only matter to you because I was a Jedi, or I miss you I miss you I miss you—
Aloud, he simply said, "Ahh—yeah, I've got a couple hours. You'll send me the coordinates?"
"Wonderful," replied the Jedi, in an exhalation of what sounded like relief. "Yes, in just a moment."
He licked his lips, swallowed. "Great, on my way."
Before the other man could reply, Anakin had hung up.
It was a stupid idea. He'd made a clean break, from all of it. There was still time. He could call Obi-Wan back and tell him it would have to wait for another day, another time, and then never follow up.
But Padmé was right. It had been a long time since he'd acted on one of his stupid ideas. And surely just an hour's visit couldn't change anything.
When he went to disengage the speeder's lock, he saw he'd made up his mind before he was even aware of doing so. He was already out of the warehouse, in the air, engines roaring as he pushed the throttle to maximum.
Headed for his friend.
Jedi Archives: Jedi Order Communication Network
To facilitate discreet and secure communication among its members, the Jedi Order maintains a massive intergalactic communication network. What began as a series of dead drop locations and message carrier droids now exists as a sprawling technological web connecting most planets in the Republic and even several outside its borders—though the old-fashioned methods of swapping messages still persist as well, and are preferred by some Jedi even today.
Dedicated holonet channels—which piggyback onto official Republic commwaves and are installed by Knights who have secretly integrated into government positions—carry video messages for the Order. As an emergency backup, an encrypted text-only channel is maintained which connects the Jedi Temple to each of the Order's secret Enclaves.
For Jedi who make their home within the Temple or an Enclave, a collection of virtual holonet mail addresses and physical safehouses are maintained. This allows each Jedi to display an illusion of normal life within the Republic as needed, providing them with an address to give potential employers, acquaintances, and family members who remain unaware of their affiliation with the Jedi. These addresses are cycled in and out of use with great frequency for security reasons.
The Order's communication network is maintained by Jedi Technicians under the supervision of the Jedi Quartermaster—though it enjoys an additional degree of oversight by the head Archivist. The privacy of individual Jedi is respected to a degree, but messages are archived at the Temple should they ever need to be opened and reviewed by a Council of Jedi Masters.