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Chapter 41
Playroom in the Nothing Realm
Toys make you weak. And weaklings die.
That's what Galen's mother said. His father would sneak him little trinkets: a rubber ball, plastic soldiers. She threw them away, screaming at them both.
Maybe in secret his mom played with toys. Because she cut her hand on a kitchen knife and died a week later. Shortly after, raiders killed Galen's father.
Wilk let him have toys, but there weren't many to be found. And they always seemed to lose them.
The carpet was soft, like velvet, black and red with wavy concentric squares and tassles along the edges that were very worn down. Scattered around were stuffed bantha, plastic soldiers, all manner of flashy and outmoded playthings.
Posters covered the walls. Now I Know My ABCs. A map of the galaxy, with outsized images of Mareth and Coruscant. On the shelves were little dolls. A man in black with a cape, holding a red sword. Three others beside him, swathed in shadows.
The only light in the room came from a lamp on the night stand beside a child's bed. There was a music box, with a wooden carving of a man kneeling at a headstone, playing the lullaby favored by Galen's father.
Hush-a-by baby, don't you cry
Nothing Man hears you in the sky
If you let Nothing Man dry your tears
He's gonna keep you all your years
The closet door opened, revealing a white tunic and cloak on wooden hangers. The cloak slid off the hanger into a hand that wasn't there, cinching around a body that didn't exist. The hood raised itself, framing Nothing. Two eyes formed in a crackle of energy.
The cloak moved through the room, never touching the floor. It set itself down on the edge of the bed in the shape of something living.
Galen stared into its timeless eyes.
"Are you ready for your lesson?" It asked.
"Yes, sir."
It spoke quietly, deeply, like wind hitting shutters so it sounds like a voice. "Today will be our greatest creation. We're going to make a hologram that can manifest consciousness. That will be hard, little one. You'll have to maintain your connection to the Realm."
Galen's head dropped. His brow furrowed and he twisted his fingers.
"What's wrong?" It asked.
"C—couldn't we help Mr. Palmer?"
Its blue eyes, which weren't eyes at all but only light, or perhaps better put the absence of light in a world where dark was light, grew and grew then instantly reset. A giggly laugh came from nothing into nothing. "Of course we can! What a marvelous idea!"
Suddenly a box appeared before Galen. Inside was a bone. "This is a patella," It said. "Are you ready to make your own?"
Little Galen grinned assuredly.
"You start with a..."
Obi-Wan's eyes snapped open. He'd slept three hours, gratefully horrorless. It wouldn't do to scream among company.
Across the room, little Galen was kneeling by Palmer's bed, fast asleep on the pillow of his arms.
Obi-Wan cocked his head. If Galen sought comfort, he'd chosen strange harbor.
The Jedi scooped him in his arms, carried him back to bed. He placed the covers over Galen and smoothed back his hair. He wondered if his own father had coddled him so. It wasn't Qui-Gon's way. But he warmly remembered Yoda's comfort.
The boy stirred. "Mister Obi-Wan?"
"Yes, Galen?"
"I hope it worked," Galen mumbled. And then he slept.
Obi-Wan walked to the garden, considering Wilk's revelation. He'd never known anyone—Jedi or Sith—with the power to create. Galen was dangerous, to himself and everyone. The morally bankrupt, of which there were many, would stop at nothing to possess him.
"Widen your stance," said Landon.
"Like this?" asked Padme.
"Yep. Now: right hand on the grip. Left hand overtop."
Obi-Wan ghosted a smile. Back on Sarna, he would've bet a million credits against the interaction.
Padme turned her head. "Good morning, Obi-Wan."
"Hey, Boss."
Obi-Wan said, "My mind is put at ease to have another gunslinger."
"Any word on the Mandalorian?" Padme asked.
"Nothing yet."
"Well, I could use some fresh air. Palmer needs a better splint and stronger pain meds."
"Jaxxon recognized you," Obi-Wan pointed out. "I'd feel much better if you stayed right here."
"I'll go," Landon interjected.
Padme responded, "You'll have a target on your back the size of a Wampa."
"What else is new?"
"Take Wilk and Brummel," Obi-Wan advised. "Chullain will think twice."
"And Landon won't think at all," Padme said.
The scoundrel failed in attempting a glare. Tenderness tempered his sulky rejoinder: "How very droll, your majesty."
Brummel's cape flapped in the breeze. Behind his skeleton mask, he observed the townspeople, who ranged in merit from worthy to wretched. Inside their simple minds he found all manner of dreams. Some he'd held in his own before discovering they were lies.
Last night the Sentinel had surrendered to weakness. This error he would not repeat.
"What's with the mask?" Landon asked. "I thought we were past that."
Brummel looked down an alley, finding Chullain and his thugs. They scattered like rats upon being acknowledged.
Landon said, "Is this your new gimmick? Strong and silent? Not a critique—I think it's working."
Breaking from their course, Brummel walked toward a blacksmith's shop.
"Hey!" cried Landon. "Are you really pulling this? Get back here!"
"Let him go," Wilk said sagely. "Our brother is in pain. It calls us to grace."
Brummel entered the only building in town that still served its original purpose. Before the plague, it was quaint and boutique. Now it was essential.
An old man with white hair, tied into braids that fell on his shoulders, hunched over an anvil striking a broadsword. He lifted his goggles and smiled at Brummel. "Hello," his voice soured upon seeing the mask. "Um... how can I help you?"
Brummel lifted a fist, deploying his claws. The blacksmith swallowed.
"These need to be sharper," Brummel said.
"Have you finally calmed down?" his voice came through the speaker.
Aayla sat crosslegged at the center of the room. All around was the rubble of her psychic conniption. The walls were scarred, her bed had been halved, and all her possessions were damaged or destroyed. The only thing spared was Miler's jacket, hanging large on her person.
She'd tried to meditate, finding it futile. Briefly she'd considered reopening her connection, trying to find him in the Unknown After. But she couldn't risk that terrible silence.
"Do you blame me for showing you?" Sidious asked.
"I blame everyone," Aayla gnarled.
She heard a smile in his voice: "If you only knew the strength that gives you."
"Who are you?" Aayla demanded
"That depends on your point of view."
"My patience wavers!"
Sidious breathed or laughed or maybe they'd become immanently fused. "My gracious host need not be named. But search your feelings. You know who is speaking..."
Bile rose in her throat, and her hands went numb, as ghastly realization poured from the Force into her mind, heart, and soul. Had she known already? Had she not cared? "Darth Sidious," she whispered.
"Not in the flesh, but close enough."
The pieces came together. "R2 is the saboteur."
"A simple matter of reprogramming," Sidious said.
"You diverted us to Axxila! You killed Miler!"
"Yes, I did," he allowed. "As did Landon Solo. As did Obi-Wan Kenobi. As did Crata himself by accepting this mission. Hate us all, little Jedi. But most of all: hate yourself for the realization you are nothing without him."
Aayla had trained her entire life to battle the Sith. She'd taken beatings, been shot and choked. But she'd never felt the pain coursing through her now. She'd never dreamt it even existed.
"Obi-Wan will come back," her child's voice wavered. "He's going to kill you."
Outside her quarters, Sidious turned to receive R2. The droid relayed a proximity alert. Sidious checked the monitor, finding Julian and the Memory Master approaching the Tangent.
"We'll talk again soon," Sidious said.
Padme's teeth pinned her lip at the center. She turned to Obi-Wan and said, "Do you think Quinn survived?"
"No, I don't." He added, a little tiredly, "And that's not your fault."
"I came on this mission because I thought I could make a difference," Padme said, eyes sweeping along the ground. "But the truth is, I've only impeded it. I realize now, my humility's a farce. Quinn saw through it. So did Brummel. They laid bare my arrogance. It's blasted ugly in the light."
Her head shook pityingly, and Obi-Wan sighed. Something he didn't like crawled up his bones. He flexed his mind, so he might shed it into the Force, but despite its vastness he found nowhere to leave the feeling.
"Are you so distraught to learn you're human?"
Padme scowled. "Don't trivialize this."
"My friend is dead," he reminded her. "I'm not trivializing anything. But perhaps you'll find this properly solemn: you are obscenely arrogant. So am I. We'd have to be to think we can save the galaxy. If that's ugly in the light, turn the damned light off."
Padme sputtered, blinking rapidly. Whatever'd crawled up his bones planted larvae in her. She was fashioning a counter when her eyes bulged at the image over Obi-Wan's shoulder.
He whirled around, coming face to face with Palmer. The ex-Jedi stood firmly on two good legs.
"Palmer," Padme mumbled. "Your knee..."
"You don't have to make the Force love you," Palmer grinned. "Just make it hate your enemies that little bit extra."
Obi-Wan looked past him into the room. "My God," he whispered.
Landon placed the med kit and splint in his bag. "Two out of three ain't bad."
Wilk said, "I've found, to the infirm, that pain remedy is paramount."
"I'd love to drug his ass to sleep. But where exactly do you—" Landon looked up at the saddest bar in the galaxy. "Nevermind, wolfie, I got it covered."
The sign reading "BAR" was hastily painted, perhaps not by the proprieter, given embarrassing graffiti in the same shade of red. The windows were tinted so you couldn't see in, suggesting the bar's clientele weren't Meirleach's paragons.
Landon pushed through the swinging doors into a forgery of a salloon.
The bar was presently empty, but the remnants of smoke, vomit, and uncollected bottles gave it enough color.
Card tables and folding chairs made a C around the "counter"—a beam turned on its side with a board overtop. For the paltry surroundings, the liquor selection was surprisingly good.
Landon walked to the counter. The grizzled barkeep looked up from his cleaning: "Afternoon," he nodded.
"I need a bottle of whiskey," said Landon.
"What kind?"
"Whatever's cheapest."
"It's all cheap," the barkeep grunted.
Landon blinked at him. "Okay, then pick your favorite."
"Can't say as I have one. Y'can sample 'em if you want."
"Just—give me the one on the left!"
"Your left or my left?"
Landon's hand clawed bitterly, before he caught a gleam in the barkeep's eye. Suddenly the hair on his neck stood up. "Why do I get the feeling you're stalling me?"
The sound of the doors pulled Landon around. Chullain entered with a posse: a Chiss, a Zabrak, a Bothan, and a Twi'lek.
"Fucking Brummel," Landon mumbled.
The barkeep ran out the backdoor as Chullain's gang advanced. The Chiss had a sidearm, seated in a holster. No one else was armed.
Landon said, "If you wanna throw fists, you should know I fight dirty."
Chullain wore a cheshire grin, possessing none of the grief that might justify vengeance. Ignoring Landon, he said: "I'm gonna rip you apart, wolf. Then I'll string up the kid and he'll watch me cook you."
"Okay, I was gonna kill you. But after that, I'll let my friend do it."
Demented fury seized Wilk's heart. A long menacing gaze showed him the parts of Chullain he intended to ruin. "Gramercy."
Landon drew his gun. The Chiss knocked it away. Landon lunged for his enemy's holster. The Chiss threw an elbow at the base of his skull. Landon fell to his knees but caught his foe's leg. He sank his teeth into his thigh. Soon both were on the ground.
The Bothan intervened. But Wilk leapt from the side, knocking him down. Wilk opened his stomach, spitting guts. The Bothan's own entrails blurred his eyes.
Chullain grabbed Wilk from behind. He hurled him over the bar. Wilk smashed the wall and dropped out of sight.
Landon pummeled the Chiss. A valley opened in his forehead. Landon saw the Twi'lek in the corner of his eye. He wrenched the gun free and fired. The Twi'lek's forearm exploded. He fell screaming, clutching its remnants.
The Zabrak dove at Landon. The gun slid away. He dragged Landon to his feet. Pinned his arms behind him.
Chullain stood before him, connecting their souls through a baleful gaze. "I didn't love my brother, because I don't love anything," Chullain said. "But for a moment when you killed him, I actually wondered."
"Then you remembered you're a piece of trash," Landon said.
Chullain punched him in the jaw. Landon shrieked, misting blood and saliva. Another blow knocked his head into profile.
The Chiss staggered to his feet, giving Chullain his blaster. "Finish it," he mumbled.
"Show some patience. We have all the time—"
His head snapped at the sound of the doors. Obi-Wan stood arms akimbo, fists on his hips. Palmer appeared in shadow behind him.
Chullain jumped back. Blood decamped from his face. He signaled the Zabrak to release their charge. Landon collapsed to the ground.
"Hey—look—" Chullain stammered. "I—I don't know what you think this is, but—we just wanted to rough him up a little. I mean, for God's sake, he killed my brother! You get that, right?"
"I'm just here for a drink," Obi-Wan said.
Wilk leapt over the bar, claws outstretched. Chullain's arm fell behind him, snapping on the floor. Wilk mounted his chest, ripping a line from face to pelvis. Chullain wrenched at him weakly, for barely a moment, before Wilk filled his mouth with bone, blood, and larynx.
The Chiss ran for the door. Obi-Wan flicked his wrist and hurled him at the wall.
The Zabrak grabbed the blaster. Palmer snapped two fingers and he turned it on himself. The Zabrak blew a hole through his own head.
Obi-Wan crouched, helping Landon to his rear. "I can't take you anywhere."
"They started it," Landon mumbled.
"No one's building a mausoleum," said a voice.
Standing at the back entrance, leaning on a pillar, was a female form in Mandalorian armor. Dark gray and black, with turquoise flourishes, and elaborate etchings on the helmet, it was dirty and scarred, perhaps in symmetry with its owner.
Her head turned to the Twi'lek as he regained consciousness. "On your feet," she said through her vocoder. "I don't want to see you again."
The Twi'lek's ruined arm flapped as he retreated.
The Mandalorian walked to the bar. She inspected a bottle, pouring a drink. "How's it going, Wilk?"
Blood dribbled from his chin. "I surmise that is rhetorical."
"Hmm. And you're Obi-Wan, right?"
"One of them," Obi-Wan deadpanned. "Do you have a name—or is it just Mandalorian?"
She took off her helmet, set it on the counter. A bob of red hair, held by a silver band, framed a heart-shaped face made permanently defiant by her inclined brows. "It has been. For a long time." Her emerald eyes danced as she threw back a shot. "I can't remember the last time I showed someone my face. But you're special."
"Am I?" Obi-Wan mused.
"You're my ticket off Mareth. So you can call me Bo-Katan."