Chapter Twenty-Three: Fight to It

Heat. It burned. It was a grenade exploding behind him, sending a shockwave of pressure and fire that nipped at his heels. Had he thrown it? Had the clones? It hadn't killed him, so he supposed it didn't matter.

It was the muscles in his legs, screaming with each footfall against the polished white plastoid of the floor. The servomotors in his right arm, protesting with each swing. Did they need to be greased? Was the power supply overheating? He couldn't do anything about it now—he'd fix it when he got out of here. If he got out of here.

It was the blaster bolts zinging past him, some coming close enough to char his clothes and burn the hair on his neck. He was lucky they'd all missed so far. He hoped his luck would hold out.

Cold. It stung. The air in the submerged city had an uncomfortable chill to it. Did it help the cloning process? Did the Kaminoans just prefer it? He gulped down another sharp breath and rounded the corner, barely registering the blaster bolt that slammed into the wall. It would have hit him if he hadn't moved.

Light. There were so many damn lamps set into the walls, it was impossible to tell where the light from one ended and another began. Someone had painted the entire hallway in illumination, it had no source, it just was. His eyes protested against the glow that was made worse by muzzle flashes and flashbang grenades, electrical arcs and fires spouting from wall panels unfortunate enough to intercept a wayward rifle shot.

Dark. The distinct sense deep within that today was his last, that his luck and his wit and quick thinking would not save him this time—oh but there's something that will and it's right there if you just reach out and take it you won't die—

Anakin Skywalker was going to die today. He was almost certain of it. But he wasn't going to make it easy for them. He was going to make them work for it, and he was going to take as many of them with him as he could.

Pain. Everywhere but his right arm—perhaps the synthetic nerves had burned themselves out. His lungs were suddenly empty—a great weight had slammed into him, redirecting his momentum sideways. He could feel something sharp digging into his torso—three distinct gashes forming near his ribcage. Claws, he realized—he'd been tackled by one of the cloned Trandoshan soldiers.

Weightlessness. They were falling, not to the floor but past it, their combined mass and momentum sending them tumbling over the railing of a balcony. Their descent became a midair wrestling match, human and Trandoshan spinning end over end as they fell. It was happening too quickly, there was no way to slow it down—yes there is, you know there is, it's right there, it's yours just take it—

The sound of shattered glass, the sensation of a million tiny needles flying past his face, the gut punch of a very sudden stop—it should have killed him, but that Skywalker luck had prevailed once again. The descending dance had been timed perfectly—the Trandoshan had been beneath Anakin when they landed on a giant sheet of transparisteel, and had taken the brunt of the fall.

The crunch of bones rang out as the pair hit the floor—they'd fallen through the ceiling of an office complex. Shards of transparisteel rained down around them, lights flickering in erratic rhythms, Kaminoan scientists backing away from their desks and running as fast as their spindly limbs would allow.

Then a scaly hand was around Anakin's throat—he gasped for air to no avail as a very-much-not-dead Trandoshan hoisted him into the air. A snarl played across the cloned creature's snout, and with a great heave it launched Anakin across the room.

What little air remained in his lungs was forced outward as he slammed into a wall and crumpled to the ground. Darkness swirled at the edges of his vision, though he could still make out the bipedal lizard stalking towards him from the other side of the room. There was a limp in the Trandoshan's gait, Anakin realized—one that would buy him just a bit more time to dread his impending death.

With great effort and a pained groan, he rolled over to one side to see a familiar figure crumpled on the ground—a dark-haired woman in a white jumpsuit. Beyond her lay another unconscious form, this one a man in a loose-fitting tunic—his auburn hair and beard showed the slightest hints of going gray.

"Padmé?" Anakin croaked, gasping for air even as he called out her name. "Obi-Wan?"

Neither of them moved.

You can save them, you know how, you've done it before, you can do it again, it's right there, take it, just reach out—

His world went dark.

Wind whipped through his hair—not the dry, processed wind of Tipoca City. This wind was damp, musty, steeped in the crags of centuries-old caverns that flew by at blinding speeds. An engine of unspeakable power sat between his legs. His jacket should have been fluttering behind him, but there were arms wrapped around his torso. They hung on for dear life, a voice screaming something into his ear about how they were going to crash.

The swoop bike slammed into a cave wall, and they were engulfed in a ball of flame.

Unholy shrieks rang out from the mandibles of a thousand insectoids, the jaws of every crawler dripped with a sickly goo. He was as drenched in the spittle as he was in his own sweat, fighting off the bugs with a blaster in one hand and a stun baton in the other. Just out of reach, his wife stood frozen in place as the queen of the cave crawlers—a horrid worm of unspeakable proportions—descended upon her. Its jaw unhinged as it enveloped her, then clamped down in an instant.

Just like that, she was gone.

The wrecked ship was more than a graveyard for clone soldiers. It had become a battleground for heroes and villains, for Jedi to face off against the fearsome warlord. It was not going as well as they had hoped. One lay there, splayed out on the durasteel, a burning hole in her gut. The other was conscious, but only just. And then there was Skywalker. Skywalker, standing in their place, ready to face the Zabrak, to do what they could not. The horned creature raised a hand. Shrapnel and boxes and clumps of metal big enough to crush a man flew down the corridor. Skywalker raised his hand in turn.

The barrage of debris kept coming, never slowing down. It plowed through every one of them.

Now he was outside, in the open air, and he was falling. Everything around him was. The palace teetered over, its skyward spires slanting sideways as the suspension engine breathed its last. Bodies littered the ground. Clones, citizens—even a lone Jedi, her lekku gone limp and her face drenched in blood. The Count, too, had collapsed on the platform, his eyes fluttering shut as he crumpled to the ground.

The palace keeled over, absorbed by the abyss.

The abyss became the wind again, but this time it was different. He could feel every bit of it. Every microbe carried by the cave air, every heartbeat of every pursuer who chased him on a swoop of their own—and the heartbeat of his passenger, somehow existing in a state perfectly between panic and calm. Every pulse of the engine between his legs, every hum of the repulsorlift he was about to power down.

He swung over the edge of the bike, pulled the plug, and sailed downward to freedom.

Crawler after crawler met their fate, delivered by a swift strike of his overcharged stun baton. He could sense them, too—their erratic individual instincts, and the coordinated pulses sent out by the hive mind. By the queen. Tendrils of energy, visible not to any ordinary creature but plain as day to him, connected each insectoid to their writhing mother. Connected the writhing mother to his fingertips.

He reached out toward the queen and gave the energy tendrils a great tug. She tore in half like tissue paper.

The energy of the Zabrak was frenetic, yet directional. The connections were tense—ones of hatred, ones of rage. As he reached out and shoved a barrage of debris toward Skywalker, Skywalker pushed back. Tendrils of passion, of righteous fury. Of love for the ones who lay at his feet.

The Zabrak went flying, beat back by the onslaught of sailing shrapnel.

Everything was falling again, the palace tilting over as life itself collapsed around him. This time, he would not fail. This time, he would do what was necessary. He stood beside the Count, reaching his arms wide and allowing the tendrils of energy—the connections of the Force—to grow down around the base of the palace like vines. His passion did what the suspension engine no longer could. It hauled the platform upward, held it aloft until rescue could arrive.

He was one with the Force. The Force belonged to him.

Anakin gasped, air rushing into his lungs as his eyes snapped open.

The approaching Trandoshan, struck by an invisible hand, sailed across the room and smacked into the wall.

Anakin rose to his feet and breathed in again. He could truly see now. The world around him made sense again. He sensed it all. Every clone in the city, rushing toward his location. Every scientist, radiating panic, scrambling toward an emergency exit. Every creature of the sea, drifting by outside, blissfully unaware of the chaos within the city. Every heartbeat in the Trandoshan's chest—weak, fluttering, keeping the cloned hunter alive. Barely.

He did not look in the Trandoshan's direction, did not move from where he stood—but he did reach out to it. Laid a phantom hand against its neck. Squeezed. Waited.

When he was certain the Trandoshan would not be getting up again, he began to walk.

Each step was more sure than the one before it, the motion fueled by the pain in his side and the ache in his spine. They had tried to teach him not to do it this way, not to fuel the Force with physical agony. He didn't know why he'd waited so long to try it. He never should have listened. The rush—of blood, of pure energy—made him feel more alive than he had in months. Years. Maybe ever.

At the edge of the office complex, an archway door led out onto a balcony—much like the one the now-dead Trandoshan had tackled him off of. He came to a stop, staring out into the inner workings of the Kaminoan city. Glass corridors crisscrossed up and down the inverted underwater spire, tubes of light zagging this way and that way like the capillaries of an artificial heart. They wavered with reflections of the outside water, the fractured light streaming in from countless windows running up and down the tower. From here, he could see it all.

From here, he could destroy it all. Not with electricity, as he'd once planned. How foolish that had been. Surely the facility had survived a lightning strike in its time; of course its systems were insulated to protect their precious cloned cargo.

There was another way. He had made the Force show it to him.

Anakin stretched out his right hand, his eyes locked upon the contours of his metal palm. Tension rods and synthetic muscle cords flexed as he balled the artificial hand into a fist. The inner workings of the arm whirred away, blissfully unaware of their surroundings.

He could see it all—the hand wound tightly around cords of Force energy, the strands that connected Anakin to the rest of the universe. They snaked outward, away from his fist, wrapping themselves around each and every nook of Tipoca City that they could reach.

Glancing left, he repeated the process, extending his hand out as far as it could reach. He felt his muscles—the real ones—tighten as his fist clamped around another set of invisible strands. In each hand, he held half the city. It was time to tear down its walls.

Anakin planted one foot in front of the other and brought his fists together. It demanded a great effort—every muscle, from his arms to his legs to his back, screamed in protest. His mind screamed even louder as he fought to tear through solid transparisteel with nothing but the raw power of the Force. For a moment, nothing happened.

Then every window in the city shattered.

The emergency shutters had never been designed to handle all the windows exploding inward in unison. The rush of ocean water was undeterred—if the shutters had even attempted to close, Anakin couldn't tell. His ears popped as the pressure changed, he could practically taste the salt in the air as the sea poured in.

Behind you.

He didn't have to turn around, he didn't have to look. He could see it plain as day, a picture seared into his mind. The onrush of water, a deluge of ocean pouring in across the office complex—headed straight for him. He didn't stop to think, didn't ponder what to do. There wasn't time—and there was no need. The Force flowed through him now. He'd let it back in. It was time to let it do the work.

Anakin leaned forward, placed a hand on the balcony railing in front of him, and vaulted over it into the open air.

He slammed into the water feet first, taking one last gulp of breath as his descent through the air ended and his descent into the flooding city began. Moisture tried its hardest to force its way in. It soaked his clothes, saturated his hair, pounded against his ears and rushed up into his nose. He kicked as hard as he could, pumping his arms and legs with a renewed strength. Whatever pain they'd felt in his panicked run through the city was but a distant memory.

His mechanical arm flailed about as he broke the surface, searching desperately for something to grab onto but finding nothing. The current carried him sideways as he gasped for air. Though he was hardly an experienced swimmer, he knew better than to fight—he channeled his strength into staying afloat and avoiding the debris that cluttered the foaming torrents of water.

Eventually the rushing currents spit him out into a half-flooded courtyard—something was keeping the water at bay here, at least to a degree. It rose only to Anakin's ankles. Trudging through the layer of liquid at his feet, he made his way to the center of the room and gazed skyward.

From here he could see upward into more of the city—high above, windows had become outlets for waterfalls that roared inward, flooding the inverted spire from the bottom up. Somehow he had to make his way up past all of it, to the ocean's surface. To safety. To escape.

How? He had no clue.

He inhaled deeply and allowed his eyes to glaze over as he reached into the Force for an answer—the ecstasy of it all washed over him, even as more ocean trickled in around his feet.

The answer came as a vision, the world shifting and changing around him. Submerged floor tiles became a scorched deck of durasteel. Lapping waves became licking flames. The roar of rushing ocean water morphed into the rumble of a cruiser on a steep reentry. And seated on the floor before him was a Jedi Knight.

The fire stopped short of the meditating man. The heat and noise would never reach him. Though Anakin had never witnessed the event himself, he knew the story all too well—and what had once allowed Obi-Wan to survive the most dangerous descent of his life could indeed help Anakin ascend to the ocean's surface. All he would have to do was sit down and reach out—

He whirled around just moments before the sound of a blaster shot rang out in the courtyard. Though it had not yet happened, he'd heard it just the same—and he now faced a single clone soldier whose gun was firmly trained on him. Though the soldier's armor was battered and beaten, it stood with firm resolve, undeterred from its mission. The red lance of energy sailed through the air between soldier and Executor—the latter's heightened perceptions slowing the entire world to a crawl.

Anakin watched as the bolt slid through the air, inching ever closer to his heart. It was an impressive shot. Perfect marksmanship—directed right at his center of mass.

The bolt would never reach its target.

Anakin raised his arm. An open metal palm stood perfectly between the blaster bolt and his body—and the world sped back up.

The shot slammed into Anakin's hand, dissipating with a hiss and a shower of sparks. The clone fired again, and again Anakin intercepted the shot with his palm. There was no pain, no burn mark on his hand to even indicate he'd been shot. It was as if it had never happened at all.

He reached out toward the clone, and the gun flew from its hands, splashing across the floor and out of reach. The clone dove for the weapon.

Gotcha.

An invisible hand—the same one that had closed around the Trandoshan's throat—pressed on the back of the clone's head, pushing it face down into the water

In that moment, Anakin knew his destination was elsewhere. He could not sit here in the courtyard, waiting for the city to sink, waiting for the Force to carry him to safety. There was work to be done. There was a cloning operation to destroy.

The soldier on the floor thrashed about, desperately trying to come up for air. The invisible hand would not let it. Anakin would not let it. When it had ceased moving—when it had breathed its last—Anakin released his unseen grip and moved toward the nearest door.

The Force was not going to carry him to safety. He and the Force were going to fight their way to it.

Inside the courtyard, the water came as a trickle. Gentle drips added to the puddle at Anakin's ankles, the sound around him akin to a bubbling birdbath.

Outside the courtyard, the water roared.

The rumbling thunder of countless waterfalls pouring into the city was all anyone could hear. Were he relying on his own senses, Anakin never would have seen the clone approaching him from one side. But he didn't need to see it. He felt it—felt its pulse, pounding in exertion. Felt its breath, ragged and tired as it trudged through the water.

Felt both those things wink out of existence as the invisible hand snapped its neck.

A blaster bolt sailed across the room toward him. Anakin could have ducked out of the way, but he held up a hand to intercept it. A sizzle of energy slammed into his palm—he responded by tugging on the space around the clone that had fired the shot. It sailed into the air—he followed the clone's arc until it slammed into a wall, then watched as its crumpled body splashed into the pool of water that had formed on the floor.

Anakin continued onward, wading through the rising currents and tossing clones about like ragdolls. His outstretched hand was his instrument of destruction. He pushed and pulled against the world with nothing but a thought.

Scaffolding splashed around him, bits and pieces of the city torn loose from their moorings by his telekinesis. He moved forward undeterred, brushing the raining metal aside with a tilt of his head. Still, he knew, it wouldn't do to stay out in the open for much longer. Willing as much power to his legs as he could summon, he forced himself to move as fast as he could through the swirling ocean at his feet. Finally, he reached a place of relative safety. An enclosed corridor—its lights flickered on and off in erratic bursts, its polished floor slick with seawater.

He had a destination now, he could see it plain as day—the turbolift shaft at the end of the hallway. Tipoca's lifts operated with pressure, not with mechanical parts—they should still work, even as the city flooded and sank into the depths. If he was quick enough, it could carry him straight to the surface.

But water lapped at his feet, his ankles, his shins, rising quicker by the second. He trudged through the current, each stride requiring more effort than the last one. The water was at his waist now. His chest. His neck. He had to tilt his head back just to take a breath.

Anakin was floating now, suspended in a swirl of ocean. He squeezed his eyes shut against the sting of the salt. Things were different now—or perhaps they'd returned to the way they were supposed to be. He could see just as much with his eyes closed. Maybe more.

The Force was an artist, painting shapes in his mind. Echoes of the corridor walls, curving gently up above him until they became the ceiling. The tube stretched onward, into the distance, until it met an end. The elevator was still there—its echo plainly visible to his mind. Would it still work, submerged in saltwater?

More echoes, rumbling in the deep. Clones, struggling to swim into the corridor behind him. Weighed down by armor, too zeroed in on their goal to bother stripping it away. Their blasters were useless beneath the depths—try as they might to fire them at Anakin, they produced nothing but pathetic sputters. He felt their echoes too.

A nudge from the Force—oh how he'd missed those, how silent the space inside his mind had been without them—brought instructions. Next steps. The path forward was not there, not on its own. He'd have to to reach out and carve one.

So he did—not with any physical motion, but with thought alone. Floating in the center of the corridor, he merely willed the water to move. It parted before him, splitting like a fault line, forming a path directly to the elevator. Walls of wet roared on either side of him, fighting against the invisible grip that pushed them back. But he held firm. His feet touched dry ground.

But so did the clones. He could hear their echoes, sense their frantic footfalls moving toward them—he had not yet opened his eyes. He still didn't need to. Their blasters were broken. They would have to reach him if they wanted to kill him.

He was going to reach the elevator first. Anakin broke into a sprint, bolting down the corridor, gliding with grace across the polished floor and between the canyon of water that still held steady. The echo of the elevator was within reach now. He held out a hand, heard the door swish open.

Now he was inside. A safe harbor, a refuge. Not yet, the Force reminded him. His pursuers were moving, and the doors were still open.

Anakin whirled around and opened his eyes. With that, the dam broke.

The rigid walls of water collapsed; their foundation had ceased to exist. Air became a roaring sea again as the corridor flooded, the current carrying every clone away with it. Turbolift doors slid shut just in time, barely containing the onslaught of ocean.

Anakin pressed the lift's control panel, and with a lurch it moved skyward. To freedom.

Not so fast.

Of course. It was never that easy. They weren't out of this one yet. As the echoes of his pursuers winked out of existence, he felt dozens more above him. The turbolift panel said it was bound for a hangar perched above the ocean's surface—that means ships, which means a ride out of here. Just what we need, he thought.

It also means crew. Clones. Obstacles standing in our way, the Force added.

The closer the lift got to the surface, the more clones he could feel. Anakin reached for his belt—he'd used the last of his grenades, and lost his blaster in the tangle with the cloned Trandoshan. The number of soldiers in the hangar above was far too many for an ordinary man to face unarmed.

Anakin Skywalker was no ordinary man. Not anymore.

The lift came to a stop, and its door slid aside. The hangar before him vaulted upward, a hole in the center of the dome ceiling offering a way out into the open sky. There were several ships to choose from—shuttles, mostly, all sporting an elegant curvature befitting of the Kaminoans. He could only hope they were designed to be piloted by the human clones.

Dozens of which stood in his way, he realized—though none had taken note of his arrival. Most would never get the chance.

The Force was an artist that could paint many pictures—a sketch of what was, an echo of what is . . . and, in times like these, a shadow of what should come next. Anakin knew what he had to do.

Inhaling deeply, filling his lungs as full as they could possibly be, he bolted toward the center of the hangar dome. The instant the clones seemed alerted to his presence, he held both hands in the air—not as surrender, but as the opening salvo. The only shot that would be fired in this engagement.

He closed his eyes, and pulled the entire hangar down on top of everyone.

Anakin awoke with a deep gasp, coughing up water even as he tried so hard to gulp down air. His head darted from one side to another as he frantically surveyed his surroundings.

He was atop the outstretched wing of a Kaminoan shuttle, with no memory of how he got there. The vessel bobbed atop the rolling ocean—of course they float, he thought, rolling over to lie on his back before forcing himself to sit up slightly.

There it was. What remained of Tipoca City. The few surface structures Kamino was home to—observation decks, landing platforms, communication antennas and telescopes.

The hangar dome he'd torn apart.

All of it was sinking into the ocean, being pulled down by gravity and the weight of the water that flooded the submerged spire. Spouts and sprays of ocean vaulted into the air as bits and pieces continued to sink. He could feel life winking out of existence beneath the water. Clone and scientist alike, succumbing to their murky grave.

There was no reversing what he'd done, no recovering the remains of Kamino. He had a job to do, and he'd done it. Not with a squad, but on his own.

Well, not entirely on your own.

He rose to his feet, and his heart rate quickened. His mouth went dry, and even though he was soaked in seawater he was certain he was on the verge of breaking into a sweat.

There's no reversing this, he thought. Even as he stared at the sinking structures, he knew he was talking about something else entirely. The wound was open now—there was no stitching it back up no matter how much he may have wanted to.

You don't want to.

Do you?

Whirling around, he slammed a clenched metal fist into the side of the shuttle. It barely left a dent, so he did it again. And again—this time screaming along with each blow to the ship's hull. The clang and his shouts rang out in unison, and Anakin roared into the rain until his throat went raw.

The voice in his head repeated itself. Do you?

What scared him the most was that he didn't know the answer.

He slammed his fist into the ship again.