XIV. Difficult To See

Sight in the Force was the essential heart of Soresu. Those disciplined in its ways were uncommonly gifted when it came to premonition, and the more certain an outcome was, the easier it was to foresee. Ben had long ago mastered the art of predicting blaster fire, of angling his lightsaber precisely to return it to its origins. Even how, saving his strength in dreamlike half-sleep, he knew that was the first lesson he would teach Luke. It was out of order, perhaps; but it had taken his entire life to see one of the final lessons Yoda had taught him: a lightsaber was a light first, and a saber second. It hummed not only with a cutting edge, but with the resonance of the Force itself. It was more wand than weapon, he reminded himself again, in the hands of the wise.

Ben was lying down again, conserving his strength, as soon as the danger of the Imperial blockade was past. He could not say if he was sleeping, if he was dreaming, or if the Living Force had carried him far away to another time, another place. The Millennium Falcon was every bit as fast as its captain had boasted—faster, maybe—but it had come at a cost. The ship stank of stellar-grade coolant, and the effort of lugging against the tractor beams had burned something out that stank of melted plasteel. The ship was a safety nightmare, and reminded him of the podracers he had seen cheating death atop Ben's Mesa, twenty years before. The Mesa, a sprawling desert plateau not far from Mos Espa, was named for Ben Neluenf, the legendary podracer from whom Ben had stolen his new name.

Ben Neluenf? Why not Ben Kenobi? It was a common name, a nobody's name, but also the name of a local hero. It had brought him acceptance early on.

Obi-Wan…

"Ben Kenobi," he insisted, though he did not know if he said it aloud. A fever took him away, though the Force directed his fall.

The leaking coolant of the Falcon was the same sort that sprayed from the damaged pipes in the Galactic Senate, a suspension of heat-sinking fluids that carried the unbearable warmth of the smog-choked core world to energy plants far from the Senate and the Temple. The slightest scent of it carried him back to the choking air that greeted him nineteen years earlier as he stepped onto the Jedi Temple's skybridge for nearly the last time.

The distress call had come out long hours ago, when the assault was still in its early stages. Caught by surprise, the defenders of Coruscant had held out for a time, but were overwhelmed in the end. Racing back to the Temple, Obi-Wan and Anakin met an all-out invasion already in progress: the Senate itself was breached by the Separatist forces and whole swaths of its grandeur lay in ruins. They had been separated in the fighting, but would find each other again soon enough. Anakin could take care of himself. He was not Obi-Wan's concern—not now.

With long, racing strides aided by the Force, he charged along the upper level of the skybridge connecting the Jedi Temple to the Senate. At first, he had deeply resented the construction of the skybridge: Ben remembered more clearly in his old age, now that Palpatine's veil was lifted, the installation of the direct conduit. It was the sort of thing Dooku had despised, the encroachment of political and military command on the monastic isolation of the Temple; he remembered many times as a boy hearing the old Master railing against the militarization of the Jedi and the corruption of their purity. In his own way, Dooku had been right where Yoda was wrong: such things were a truly rare occasion, and that made his fall all the harder to bear.

With the skybridge came greater traffic from the Senate as officials and advisors came and went at all hours of the day and night. The relationship of the Temple to the Senate was changing; that was unavoidable. No one in those days had imagined the Order's very existence was in jeopardy, but many were unhappy with the shape it was taking; these Jedi most of all made regular contact with the Senators and politicians in an attempt to influence that shape and preserve the Order's independence and integrity as peacekeepers. They came at all hours of the day and night, if the standard clock could even be so divided: the planet was an ecumenopolis, a massive sprawling global city; choked under clouds and mesospheric haze, lit by an incessant blanket of synthetic light, Coruscant was a realm of perpetual twilight, trapped forever halfway between day and night, between light and dark.

At least, that was how it been every day but this one. Smoke stained the elegant windows and billowed in great roiling clouds outside. Here, on the topmost level, things were bad enough; down below, where the bridge led straight to the Senators' chambers, the power had gone out in the fighting and the way was dark as night.

Obi-Wan switched on his lightsaber, held it behind his eyes like a beacon. He hesitated only once on the ramp as it descended into shadow. Then, gritting his teeth, gripping his weapon in hand, he started down the dark path.

His comm crackled as he reached the Senators' floor. Only the private frequency of the Order remained active.

"They've breached the top level," someone shouted. It was Shaak Ti, he thought. "We need reinforcements."

He was about to respond when he heard Anakin's voice.

"We're here," the younger man said, with all too much eagerness in his voice. "Looks like we got back just in time."

Obi-Wan reacted nearly too late as the blaster fire came in. The battle-droids had no real anger, no living hostility behind their attack protocols. That made their ambushes much harder to predict than those of living opponents, which were always preceded by a ripple of murderous intent. But he was fast in those days, unspeakably fast, and his blade snapped up to deflect a flurry of blaster fire almost before he perceived the threat.

The droids in the front line, the first around the corner, fell to their own own blaster bolts, and with methodical precision sharpened by a growing sense of urgency, he set about carving through the rest. They stood their ground, as they were programmed to do. They could not feel the touch of darkness in him as he came.

"The Chancellor's chambers," Shaak Ti directed through the comm. "Hurry." She was only a few floors above him. For a moment, in the hall, Obi-Wan hesitated.

"On my way," said Anakin's voice. Obi-Wan stood, looked down the hall, then to the elevator, then back down the hall again. Was it Dooku? Anakin could not yet face him alone—

"It's Grievous," said Shaak Ti. "Grievous himself. We can't stay here. We're going to try to get the Chancellor to one of the hangar decks."

"Decks twelve and thirteen are out of commission," said Anakin. It was true; they'd just been there. A hail of blaster fire drowned out the comm; no one knew who was in mortal peril until the shooting stopped.

"We're moving him," said Shaak Ti. "No choice. Meet us on the skybridge."

Obi-Wan thumbed the commlink. "Negative," he said. "Repeat, stay off the skybridge. Kenobi here. The power's been cut to the bridge. The elevators will be down."

"We copy, Gener—nobi. Search—or alter—routes."

"Come back?" said Anakin. "I don't copy. There—much interference."

"We're going to tr—angar deck twen—"

"Master, whe—osed to mee—" crackled Anakin's reply. The frequencies faded as the jammers finally caught up to the Jedi commlinks' advanced capabilities.

It would be well enough. Grievous was dangerous and well-trained, but he was no Jedi. The sabers in his hands were not mystical weapons—merely glorified cutting torches. Anakin was a ferocious fighter and Obi-Wan did not think him outmatched, especially with Shaak Ti at his side.

The Chancellor, perhaps, was in trouble—but Obi-Wan had more pressing concerns.

The elegant double doors were locked and sealed when he arrived. There was no time for it; he plunged his lightsaber through the door and slowly began to melt through, hoping the blue glow of its tip would indicate a friend, not a foe. He felt her presence clear as day, knew he had come to the right place at the right time.

"Ani—" she breathed. Padmé's voice was thick with terror.

Obi-Wan stepped through the smoke, over the molten edge of the hole he had cut.

"Padmé," he said. "You're all right."

She was curled behind the long plush meeting-bench, sheltered from the outside glass. Beyond the window, droid fighters zipped and careened through the other towers with clone interceptors in tow. The distant silhouette of Grievous's capital ship, the Invisible Hand, hung on the top of the horizon.

She ran to him, was in his arms before he knew it. She was wearing the blue dress.

"I knew you'd come," she said. "Where's Anakin? Is he with you?"

Behind Obi-Wan's eyes, old Ben fumed, mouthing the words as his younger self said them.

"We were separated," said Obi-Wan. "It looks like the Chancellor's under attack."

"Then—why are you here, Obi?"

"Grievous has taken you before," Obi-Wan said. "He will not take you again."

"I know," said Padmé. Obi-Wan barely heard those words in his alarm and vigilance. But old Ben heard them—heard their true weight.

"Come with me," he said, and she did not hesitate. "It's not safe here."

"Not anymore," she said, looking at the hole through her door with astonishment.

"It wouldn't have held them," said Obi-Wan. "We've got to get you out of here, into the low streets where it's safe."

"What about Anakin?" she asked.

"Anakin can take care of himself," he reassured her. The truth was, Anakin's first thoughts on landing were for the Supreme Chancellor, as if the latter had called out to him, as if the two had become so close that Anakin could sense the old man's distress. That thought unsettled him. That he had raced after the Chancellor without a thought for his forbidden bride, though—that merely angered him.

Ben felt a sudden pain in that moment. There was no place for anger.

"Come on," Obi-Wan said, extending a hand. She followed him without question. She had a blaster at hand—a sleek little Theed Palace holdout blaster, the only weapon of its clumsy kind he had ever considered truly elegant.

There were probably no blasters like it, now, in all the galaxy. Their elegance, too, was gone forever.

They ran together down darkened halls and followed the working lights (there were very few) to the closest powered elevator. It was, as expected, a trap. Grievous had no doubt expected interference from some formidable fighters now that the Temple and the Senate were linked. Ben heard them before he saw them—heard the eerie hum of their electrostaves lighting up in the elevator. Then the doors were open and a full squad of Grievous's personal Magnagaurd stood between them and safety.

"You will let us pass," said Obi-Wan: it was useless, but he had to try. The six towering droids stepped out of the elevator and fanned around him. Clearly they thought he was going up, toward the Chancellor—not down toward Padmé's freedom. They were not like the other battle-droids: the Magnaguards, IG-100s, were Jedi-killers, designed for the purpose, an unholy alliance of advanced programming and Dooku's personal duelling style. He had not faced so many before—and never as a bodyguard. Even decades later, through distant eyes, Ben felt the Force surge in him.

"Stay close to me," Obi-Wan said softly. In half-sleep, Ben mouthed the words with him.

Then the battle erupted.

The Magnaguards, engineered for murder, were programmed to anticipate a thousand saber duelists' opening lines. Obi-Wan's blazing sword shimmered in the air as it bounced against the fields generated by heir electrostaves, but did not find its mark. He spun and pivoted, and Padmé did her best to match his movements and stay back-to-back with him, dancing within the whirling globe of his lightsaber and taking shots of her own where she could. Reaching out for her mind, he found it, and touched its depths; without thinking, she followed his movements more and more precisely. As the Magnaguards began to coordinate their attacks, linking wirelessly, so did the two humans twine in thought and spirit, united in purpose and movement.

Obi-Wan's shoulder flashed with searing pain, then went numb as the first of the guards hit home. Electricity crackled over his shoulder, spasmed the muscle, left him shivering as the tissue jerked in contrary directions. A wail from behind him told me Padmé was hit as well.

They tried to move to the elevator. The circle tightened.

Ben resisted the urge to shout commands to his younger self. In fact, he wanted to look away.

No, a voice insisted. Stay and watch. Taste your true power again. You'll soon have need of it.

Every strike slowed him down, left his muscles buzzing and without finesse. It was worse for her. Her legs gave out after the second stray blow got through. The droids were formation-fighting now, passing electricity in long arcs from one staff to the next as they struck blow after blow. Obi-Wan's saber got in the way of most, but not all. The smell of burning flesh began to grow as both took their hits. Obi-Wan straddled her fallen body and tightened his stance, letting them come to him. He was not a natural acrobat, like Anakin. Foolish theatrics would not save her. A flawless defense might.

"Obi," she cried as the electrostaves darted in. "Go, go! Get out of here! Ah!"

Another weapon got through.

"On your own—you can make it—"

He was failing her.

Not her. No. Not her, too.

Watch, said the Dark Side. Old Ben tried to rouse himself, tried to wake up as if from a nightmare. But he was weary.

An electrostaff struck Padmé hard in the face, but this time left no burn where it bruised her. The crackling lightning at the edge of the staff had snaked up its length to where Obi-Wan gripped it with his free hand. The energy collected there, in his grasp, coiling, magnifying—then it slammed back into the metal of the staff, the arms of the Magnaguard, its vulnerable chest. The droid tugged vainly at the weapon but Obi-Wan did not let go. His saber was too busy deflecting incoming strikes to be much use—but he held onto that electrostaff as the weapon shorted and sparked. The droid convulsed and went down in a hail of crackling energy. Bits of metallic debris from the earlier fighting pinged against its magnetized shell as the unit met its end.

On all sides, the electrostaves came in again. Once again, the lightning that arced from staff to staff now licked hungrily at them. But Obi-Wan felt for it, felt the terrible dark energy cascading around him, and as the droids struck home he called up a pathway through himself to some deep unknown place. As the weapons struck their searing heat raced straight through him, and out of his hands, and back into the droids, arcing through them in a blast of uncontrolled energy. They smoked at the joints, stumbled with their staves, and still the dark energy of their assault poured out of him, magnified by some hidden reserve of inner power. He would spend long years telling himself it was with the last of his strength that he redirected the droids' own attack, tearing them apart with their own lightning. But reliving the attack, cleaving through the droids with a furious, terrible assault as his saber ripped apart their convulsing, blasted bodies, he felt just how deep that well of energy went—just how much power he could have drawn from it at need.

Limitless power, maybe.

Oh, certainly. Limitless power.

The squadron of Magnaguards clattered to the ground in a heap of ruin, their plates still charged and crackling, their edges molten where the saber had finished them. Obi-Wan fell with them, taking a knee beside Padmé's half-conscious body.

"You—you're hurt," she gasped.
More than you know, thought old Ben.

"I do believe we've worn out our welcome," said young Obi-Wan smugly. It was a perfectly awful thing to say. Taking her by the hand, he led her to the elevator, and down to the plaza deck, and across the smoking wreck of the Senate Plaza toward a top-secret bolthole in the Old Galactic Market. They ran for a distance under open sky, where the planetary defense forces still tangled with the swooping droid fighters in the monolithic shadow of the Invisible Hand. On the ground, shock troops had been deployed on both sides, and what would later be known as the Battle of Coruscant was already underway.

With light steps and perfect silence, they made their way around craters and rubble left in the Senate Plaza. Old Ben watched them go, for he could not quite get away from himself; he saw now, with an old man's eyes, just how close they came to some of the wandering patrols. But they took flight at twilight and none pursued them: against the backdrop of a smoky, battle-choked sky, the pair moved half in light, half in darkness.

Let me wake from this dream, Ben willed. The boy needs me.

There's so much more to revisit, said the Dark Side.

Let me wake, he insisted.

You know where we're going.

"Leia," Ben said. "Leia…"

Aboard the Millenium Falcon, an old man's lips moved silently as he stirred in his dream. But he did not wake.