XIX. Old Meditations

Hangar Bay 327 was located in Sector N6, a long way from the Death Star's command deck. By the time Darth Vader made his way to the hangar, a heavily armed boarding party had already stormed onto the mysterious ship and swept it with their usual clumsiness. That, too, would make his job harder. But Vader knew his ships, particularly the old pre-Clone Wars models, and he knew the creative ways in which Outer Rim scavengers, smugglers, and spacers creatively modified such craft for action. His expertise in starcraft mechanics was very old knowledge, buried deep in his shattered bones; but it came when called upon, just like the Force. And the bizarre circumstances surrounding the little cargo ship were a puzzle meant, perhaps, for Vader alone to solve.

The ship was a sleeper—that much was clear to him. Built from an unwieldy, asymmetrical YT-1300 light freighter, it was heavily retrofitted for what Vader presumed was smuggling in seriously hostile space. From three decks above the ship, he could spot the massive round dish of the rectifying antenna—a military-grade sensor necessary for missile targeting. Sure enough, when he reached the flight deck, he spotted where the cargo coupling between the forward mandibles had been stripped away to make room for a hidden battery of concussion missiles. The appearance of a cargo coupling had been restored, but it had been a clumsy welding job, sacrificing reliability for concealment and failing at both. He wondered what other surprises the ship might hold, how many of them would be revealed by the scanning crew, and how many he would return to discover himself once matters with the Princess had been resolved.

He circled the hull with an almost pleasant curiosity, distracted from the pain of each step by the enigma of the empty vessel. A full crew would be better equipped to sweep the ship, but Vader resolved to supervise them as directly as he could. There were few men left in the galaxy who knew pre-Imperial ships and scavengers' mechanics as well as he did; but the best smugglers could be cunning, and he was not sure the Death Star's crew would be a match for them.

A tremor in the Force struck him as he approached the vessel, like a wave of light washing over him. It was a weak tremor, flagging, fleeting, but its signature was unmistakeable. He jerked his head up towards the hidden drop gun as he rounded the curve of the cockpit. It was as much movement as his black helmet would allow, and he wondered what other illegal modifications lurked just out of his narrow field of view.

The docking bay's security officer came down the ramp to meet him with the last of the initial boarding party in tow. "There's no one on board, sir," he began. "According to the log, the crew abandoned ship right after takeoff." But Vader's mind was already on the uncanny coincidence that a ship out of Mos Eisley would have followed him directly here at unbelievable speed. He did not need to feel Kenobi's presence to know the hallmarks of his old master.

"Did you find any droids?" Vader asked.

"No sir," Captain. "If there were any on board they must also have jettisoned."

"Send a scanning crew aboard," said Vader. "I want every part of this ship checked. I sense something…a presence I've not felt since—"

Since when? Vader left his ominous statement hanging as soon as he realized he did not know how to finish it. Since the fight on Mustafar, nearly twenty years ago? Or since Obi-Wan's presence struck him on board the Tantive IV, just a few standard days before? He recalled his old Master's voice, heard it echo in the back of his mind—heard all the smugness and superiority, the stubborn optimism, the quiet confidence that was somehow far more aggravating than open boasting. That voice came always with a unique presence in the Force. He was sure he had felt it above Tatooine. But aboard the Devastator, they had taken his command literally, methodically tearing the ship down to scrap in search of the plans. Obi-Wan was nowhere to be found. And now, this feeling aboard another ship… he dared not trust it. Was it a projection of some kind? A subtle power in the Force his Master had not taught him?

From the edge of the hangar bay, Vader reached out with the Force again. His sensory powers had dulled somewhat with time, as he concentrated on bending existence to his will; but with ample anger, the Force obeyed. There, again, was that glimmer of Obi-Wan's energy. It was weak, but there could be no denying it. Obi-Wan's presence was filling these rebel ships—and if he was not physically aboard them, he wanted it to appear as if he was.

In short, it was a mystery; and Vader hated mysteries.

Anger at the befuddlement of his own powers shifted into a cloud of fear so palpable that it pushed officers out of his path, as if he had shoved them aside with enormous intangible shoulders. None dared to question his passing—none save a staggering droid, an insufferable RA-7 protocol model, that could not perceive his malevolence.

"My Lord," it began, approaching him mid-stride, "Governor Tarkin has ordered—"

"Governor Tarkin does not presume to order me," said Vader. "I am retiring to my meditation chamber. If he requests my presence on the Overbridge, he may leave notice with my attendant."

"Yes, my Lord," said the droid, hesitating only a moment as its programs conflicted.

Vader paused only a moment above the hangar, letting his malevelonce pour into the space, inviting the Dark Side to overwhelm Kenobi's trickery and grant him peace from whatever Force projection the old man had sent. The comlink controls in his helmet were seldom used; he had to stop walking altogether and fidget with the side of the mouth controls to trigger them. But Admiral Motti's onboard communications systems were no place for Sith matters.

"Yes, Master?" came the expected voice, almost immediately.

"I'm coming up," he said. "Have the Qabbrat prepared for a meditation cycle."
"It stands ready, My Lord."

"Is the Death Star equipped to run a healing cycle?"

A pause. "In theory, my Lord. The Qabbrat is built to your personal specifications from Mustafar."

"Prepare a healing cycle," he ordered. "And see that I am not disturbed. Governor Tarkin may try."

"He will fail," the voice assured him.

The chamber occupied the back wall of Vader's personal apartment, which was as sparsely furnished and empty as a prison cell. It was fully powered and waiting for him, and the Emperor's toadying attendant, Vaneé, had discreetly slipped away before his arrival. The portable chamber was a poor substitute for the master Qabbrats on Mustafar and Imperial Centre, assembled with no more care than any other part of the Death Star—but as the dome sealed itself with a hiss, Vader felt considerable relief as the outside world rushed away from him. Steeling himself for the agony of natural breathing, he initiated the healing sequence and allowed his mind to drift back to his old master. He was not quite himself in their duel on Mustafar, at a place where the Dark Side grew strongest. But if he was willing to look farther back, into the forbidden life of Anakin Skywalker, he could rediscover Obi-Wan's energy, and calm his fury around it so that he could better perceive it. Perhaps, given time, he could even track it back to its source. Then, Obi-Wan would pay…but those thoughts were of the future, and had no place in Vader's meditation. As the clumsy control arm broke the seal on his helmet and the chamber filled with a crude medicinal gas, he let his mind return to the young Jedi knights and their last mission together before he broke free of the Jedi's chains once and for all.

There was a poetic symmetry to Vader's meditation. Just as Obi-Wan was to be the last Jedi Master, the loose end left untied, Vader's thoughts drifted back the moment of his birth, to the sweet moment he killed his first Jedi Master. He had called himself Darth Tyranus, though Vader was unsure if the Emperor had ever truly bestowed the title of Darth on him. He was, in the end, no Sith Lord at all—only Dooku, a deluded Jedi Master tricked into betraying the Order and himself.

Vader centered himself on that moment. The Emperor had not yet named him, but it was the first moment he felt himself come into power, felt that he could become stronger than even Anakin Skywalker. The surging darkness was young in him, and he clung to it to guide his meditation. In spite of himself, in spite of his loathing for the Jedi and Obi-Wan and all that been swept away, it was the weak-willed, snivelling, foolhardy boy—Anakin Skywalker—that he hated most.

In his mind's eye, he felt the sabers slice through the flesh of Dooku's neck, watched with cold satisfaction as the Light returned to the old man's eyes in a moment of horrible regret as the blades finished him. He had dwelt on that moment many times. But he turned his thoughts aside now, to the world he despised revisiting. He found Obi-Wan's presence immediately, turned it over in his mind, studying it as he reached out to it with his wicked desire for revenge.

Revenge.

Obi-Wan was weak. He had not fought like himself against Dooku; even then, Vader knew, he had mastered every saber defense and with Anakin's help, should have made short work of the phony Sith Lord. Perhaps the Emperor had known some battle meditation after all; he resented that his master had not taught him this skill. Or perhaps Obi-Wan had been troubled by something, shaken by the week-long assault on Coruscant or the loss of his pitiful Jedi friends.

"Anakin," said the Emperor. "There's no time. We must get off the ship before it's too late."

The stupid boy crouched over Obi-Wan's crumpled body.

"He seems to be all right," said Anakin.

"Leave him, or we'll never make it," the Emperor commanded. He was not yet Emperor, Vader realized—with some relief. It was the last time he had openly disobeyed his master.

"His fate will be the same as ours," Anakin snapped back with supreme arrogance.

Of course the Master was right. Of course he should have left Obi-Wan to die. At long last, that was an error he would soon correct.

Vader probed deeper.

He understood now the attack was gambit, a ruse. He understood why the Invisible Hand's hyperdrive had come offline over Coruscant, understood why the separatist fleet was left defending the orbiting fortress for interminable days while the Jedi came out of hiding and scrambled to regroup. The Emperor's machinations had arranged the assault from the beginning, and the Emperor patiently awaited their assault on the ship. How long would he have waited if they had not come?

But the Emperor knew. He must have known. Vader was already loyal. He had rushed to protect Palpatine, without sparing a thought for…no. Focus on Obi-Wan. Focus on revenge.

His old master was all smugness and self-satisfaction again as they shuttled the Emperor—Palpatine, he corrected himself—back through the military blockade that was finally settling down as the separatist ships withdrew in defeat. Anakin studied his master even then, which only made Vader's impression of him stronger. Even foolish Anakin knew him well enough to know he was a serious and troubled man, and his arrogance covered a certain disquiet.

He breathed a sigh of relief when they touched down. The Emperor's favoured courtiers and advisors had gathered to meet him. There would be insufferable politicking to come; Vader's distaste for it was nearly all he shared with Anakin.

Obi-Wan hesitated as they disembarked—no, he realized. Obi-Wan hid himself in the shuttle on their return.

"Are you coming, Master?" asked the boy. He did not see with Vader's cold shrewdness.

"Oh no, I'm not brave enough for politics," Obi-Wan lied. "I have to report to the Council." Vader's senses, his inquisitor's senses, bored into that lie, sensed Obi-Wan's quiet reservations. While Anakin bantered like a fool with the old man, Vader probed him, sensing his powers of deception, of misdirection, in the fullness of their strength. Obi-Wan was the greatest liar he had ever known. It was the master's deceptions, not his lightsaber, that Vader faced now, and it was these dark spots in the master's aura he studied most carefully. Obi-Wan's purity and conviction, as always, were an impenetrable armour. But Vader was a hundred times more sensitive now to the miniscule cracks in everyone—the places where the Dark Side made its way in and took root.

Anakin frowned sullenly as he turned away from the shuttle, and Vader meant to pull away too. The mission to recover Palpatine, completed only a few standard days after the Battle of Coruscant began, was the last of Anakin's adventures with the old man. They would speak again a few more times over the coming days, but that mission was the last he would feel of Obi-Wan's true strength, his active channelling of the Force, until… until the fire…

Vader doubled over in his meditation chamber, choking on the noxious medicine. His blasted lungs burned and he reached instinctively for the panic controls. They would do nothing in this prison while his helmet was still recharging, while its piercing hypodermics were still feet away from his skin. His concentration on the Dark Side made him powerful, but there was no healing to be had in it. Weak, feeble coughs wracked his body as he cleared his mind, tried to breathe, tried to free himself from the prison of drowning in his own darkness.

No breath came for a long moment. He felt himself dizzying, and with the helmet off there was no medicine to stabilize his reeling mind. He reached out, like a man in free fall—

There she was.

Padmé had been waiting for him—no!—waiting for Anakin, he corrected—in the forest of towering columns that flanked the Senate building and served as an elegant noise baffle against the arrival and departure of transport ships. It was a place well suited to whispers—perhaps even by design—and Vader felt her presence too—a shimmering joy, an indomitable light—before he saw or heard her. He said his hasty departure from some senator in the Emperor's retinue and rushed to her impatiently.

"Oh, Anakin," she sighed breathlessly. Anakin sighed, too. Even Vader sighed for a moment, scorching his ragged lungs. Regulators jolted his heart painfully back into rhythm as it raced momentarily without the suit's authorization. Shuddering, he inhaled as deeply as he dared.

This was…more stable. Some tiny pinpoint of light in his cavernous spirit was not opposed to healing. In a fully pressurized Qabbrat, he could take a handful of shallow breaths unassisted now. For all his might, for all the power he felt crushing the wind out of men across vast distance, it was in these shallow, wheezing breaths that he felt truly strong.

The Dark Side can be bent to your will, he told himself with conviction. But his mind remained fixed on Anakin's wife.

"I've missed you, Padmé," said Anakin. It seemed like the thing to say. He had never been good at articulating these emotions—emotions muted by all the doctrine of the late Jedi, only to be stamped out entirely by the Sith. He could not speak well about them, but he could feel them. Vader felt them, too. A single breath, long and ragged, brought the medicine deep into his ruined lungs.

Padmé drew back from him, then, and a shadow passed over her face, some hidden silent fear. Even Anakin sensed it. Vader, his senses finely tuned to fear, could smell it plainly even across two decades of regret.

Anakin's eyes searched hers, probing for the source of that fear.

"There were whispers that you'd been killed," she breathed. It was a redirect, he understood; but it was more than enough for the foolish boy's ego.

"I'm all right," he smiled. "It feels like we've been apart for a lifetime." Anakin's hand, his real true left hand, brushed the skin of her neck. Vader's lungs took another breath. The boy's lips traced hers. He would have her in his arms again that night, nearly that hour. He felt it; he craved it. He dared not touch her this way, not here on the floor of the Senate itself. But he was gripped by a young man's eager passion, now, and its power would not be denied. Words danced between them in the silence, but he did not heed them, and his memories were cloudy, indistinct. For a moment, there was only the purest of light between them, a light Vader held just long enough to feel the medicines doing their work—then again, the shadow of fear passed over her and the moment of light was gone.

Vader drew back from the happy memory, kept his wits even as Anakin did not. Somewhere, years upon light years away, his mechanical hand struck a button to end the healing cycle. He had lost his grip on that moment, and there would be no more Force healing today.

"You're trembling," said Anakin, his eyes suddenly dark. "What's going on?"

"Something wonderful has happened," Padmé said. Her tone was light, but she did not smile, especially not at the eyes.

"Ani—I'm pregnant."

"That's wonderful," he stammered. It was he alone who smiled. Vader could feel the fear in her, the sadness. In Anakin, he felt only joy. And he knew what was to become of that joy.

"This is a happy moment," said the boy. "The happiest moment of my life."

Vader used the boy's stupidity to center himself. They would make love again that night for the last time, and that, too, was a memory so polluted by the Dark Side now that no healing could be drawn from it. It did not matter. That was, he reminded himself, not what he had come to the chamber for. He had come for Kenobi. He had come to remember his last adventure with the old man, to remember the precise feeling of Kenobi's shimmering presence in the Force. But in the glow of that meditation, with powerful Force potions swirling in his lungs and the momentary touch of the light in him, he felt his perceptions renewed. And he felt that power darken almost immediately as he bent his will to the hunt.

Vader had been baffled over Scarif. He had been confused aboard the Tantive IV and utterly helpless over Tatooine. Kenobi had hidden himself well, and it was a wonder Vader had sensed him at all. Now, fully prepared for it, rested and healed, able to reach out for a short time with his feelings as he had done in years long past, there was no denying it.

Kenobi was aboard the ship—or had been, an hour ago. He was away from it now, but had not gone far. For all the weakness of that aura, Vader turned it over in his heightened senses, dissected it: it was an unmistakeable mixture of stubborn optimism, quiet compassion, brash confidence and steely resolve.

The helmet lowered into place. The agony of two dozen needles locking back into his skull brought him back to his full, dark focus. Obi-Wan was actively using the Force, he realized. It rippled around him as he moved. The very powers that would conceal him, no doubt, to every other security presence aboard the station would shine like a beacon to Vader's senses.

Tarkin had been wise enough not to disturb him, and for that Vader was grateful. It was an uncommon man who possessed such wisdom without compromising his cruelty, and Vader did not resent the Governor's command of the station as much as he resented the other Imperial officers. He hastened now to the overbridge, hoping in spite of his loyalties that Tarkin himself had not yet deduced the nature and identity of the intruder. It was a rare excuse to pull rank with the first and most powerful Grand Moff, after all: as the highest-ranking officer under Imperial Command, Tarkin's governance was supreme. But on certain matters, including the extermination of the Jedi, Vader's authority outstripped even Tarkin's. He imagined himself, for a long moment, crushing the life from his old master. No interrogation, no greater military strategy—only death and revenge.

"Vader, release him," Tarkin might urge. But in this matter, Vader could well say: No.

Indeed, Vader's rivalry with Tarkin was tempered with respect for the Grand Moff's abilities and cunning. When he stormed onto the overbridge, he was caught off-guard only a moment to see Obi-Wan's old war records shimmering in the air above the conference table. Tarkin, working tirelessly long after the officers and scurried to their quarters, was reviewing the old Jedi file just as the Sith Lord entered. He was impressed, but not surprised, that Tarkin had also identified Obi-Wan's handiwork somewhere in the heist of the station's plans. He was vastly more cunning than even Vader gave him credit for, and if Vader's suspicions had not already been absolute, discovering the Grand Moff poring over Kenobi's files confirmed it. The presence was Obi-Wan's, he now knew with absolute certainty. With the simplest of thoughts, he pinpointed the old man's energy. It was unmistakable now, but something else—no, someone else—was here with him…

Tarkin hastily shut down the holodisplay as Vader strode into the room, looking rather like a cat caught with a canary. Vader gestured to the round globe of the holo-display and took the rare opportunity to speak first: "He is here."

Tarkin's brows huddled close together in confusion. "Obi-Wan Kenobi?" he asked. "What makes you think so?"

Vader hated having to explain himself. "A tremor in the Force," he said. "The last time I felt it was in the presence of my old Master."

A lifetime away, with incredible lightness of step and calmness among the chaos, he felt himself running silently through the halls of battle cruisers and space stations at his master's side. He remembered the fights, remembered Obi-Wan at the height of his skill, and he felt the regulators in his armor kick in, jolting his lungs and heart painfully to steady his quickening pulse. Tarkin went on about something, but suddenly Vader's mind was far away, rooted in the conflict to come, and on one—no, two—incredibly bright presences in the Force that glinted and shone in his mind's eye.

So. Obi-Wan had brought apprentices. Two of them, untrained but ferociously strong. His perceptions dulled, his sensitivity in the Force replaced by power to bend it to his will, the subtleties of their energies had eluded him. But now they were starting to come into relief, and there was something eerily familiar about them, as well.

They were moving toward the captured freighter, all of them. The Princess must have been with them, unless—was she one of his new disciples? It explained everything—her resistance to the mind probe, the strange sameness in their energies—everything. He knew in that moment she was gone from her cell, knew it even before the alert came in to Tarkin that she had escaped.

"Obi-Wan is here," Vader insisted. "The Force is with him."

"If you're right," said Tarkin, "he must not be allowed to escape."

He sensed, clear as a cloudless night, the conflict in Kenobi. The light radiating within him was too subtle for Vader to comprehend, but he understood fully the current of darkness: he had come here for revenge, to settle their score once and for all. Their destinies, once again, were entwined in the unlikeliest of places.

"Escape is not his plan," said Vader. "I must face him alone." Tarkin dared utter nothing in answer as the Dark Lord of the Sith turned from the room and readied himself for the fight of his life.