Chapter Seventy-Three: Make Things Right

On Coruscant, one never truly stood upon solid ground. Streets, sidewalks, boulevards, sprawling parks—none of it touched the earth, supported by a complex web of structural engineering. Still, most times, it could still easily be mistaken for genuine terra firma, its state of suspension easy to ignore.

Except in the Catwalks.

What had begun its life as a single bridge across a vast sea had transformed over centuries, expanding outward until an entire city hung a hundred feet above the water's surface. Apartments, stores, restaurants, workshops—all of it was held up by durasteel cabling above, a latticework of rigid metal below. With every step, Luminara felt the sidewalk buckle, the suspension cables singing as they swayed under the weight of everything around her.

The streets were packed with foot traffic, the locals seemingly accustomed to the constant rocking motion. Wheeled carts ambled along, rattling against the metal grid that formed the road. The faces that passed Luminara were dim; what little sunlight made it this far down was choked by pollution, smog and neon drowning out the warmth of Coruscant's star.

And yet, as her eyes swept from one person to the next, from each hanging building to its neighbor, she did not have to wonder why Obi-Wan had chosen here for a meeting place. It was another world of sorts, unbothered by the conflict and chaos that plagued the capital above. Down here there were no posters advertising war bonds, no broadcasts displaying the faces of the Republic's wanted traitors: the clones, the pirates . . . the Jedi.

As Luminara squeezed past a pub window sporting countless glowing signs—one promised round-the-clock opening hours, while another proudly displayed the numerous technically illegal currencies the restaurant accepted—she risked a downward glance at the holocompass concealed in the arm of her cloak, then gave a long exhale. The coordinates from Obi-Wan's message lay before her.

This is it. The rendezvous point.

Ignoring the great clenching motion of her heart, she crossed the street, then pushed aside the cold metal door that sat between her and her old friend.

Inside, the air was marginally fresher than what passed for the Catwalks' "outdoors"—and the crowd just as indifferent to her existence. No one glanced upward at Luminara as her eyes swept across the room, searching for familiar faces, only to come up empty. Obi-Wan wasn't here.

Yet, she reminded herself. He isn't here yet.

Despite Obi-Wan's absence, there was a certain table—a booth tucked near the back of the pub—that seemed to glow, as if the Force were nudging her toward it. The lamp above the table, bulb flickering, swung gently back and forth, in time with the suspended city's sway. Its dim glow fell on a very sticky slab of synthwood, flanked by benches covered in tattered vinyl upholstery.

Sighing, Luminara slid into the booth.

For all its visibly evident faults, the pub at least offered swift service—mere moments after the Jedi had sat down, a weary-eyed Twi'lek server approached. "Something to drink?" the young woman asked, reaching up to sweep a headtail behind her shoulder. Then, as Luminara looked up: "Oh, a topsider. You shouldn't drink the water down here. Ale's probably safe, though."

"Sure," Luminara said. A moment later, her brain caught up with her automatic reply: "Better make it two. I'm meeting a friend."

"You got it."

As the server sauntered back toward the bar across the room, the Jedi drew a slow breath in through her nostrils, focusing her senses. She could feel no anterooms or hidden nooks near her, no potential hiding places for a wanted man. Frowning in exasperation, she leaned back against the booth's cheap foam padding—and immediately bolted upright again.

Shifting in her seat to disguise her movements, she turned and ran a hand along the back of the booth. Wedged into the foam, tucked beneath a torn flap of the upholstery, was a solid object. Cylindrical. Pulsing with distinct energy in the Force.

She reached her hand beneath the torn fabric, each movement deliberate as she swept her eyes across the bar. For several moments she just waited, making sure none of the other patrons were paying her any mind, that her server wasn't returning with her drinks.

Fingertips brushed against polished metal, and Luminara's heart beat in quickstep. Slowly, gingerly, she withdrew the object from its hiding place and placed it in her lap without looking. Again, several moments' wait; then, when she was certain no one had seen her, she looked down, confirming what she already knew. This was a lightsaber.

Obi-Wan's lightsaber.

Why would he have left it here? she wondered, hands gripping the metal hard enough to hurt as she racked her brain. It wasn't likely he'd stowed it here for safekeeping before he fled the planet—surely he would have visited his friend's diner in the Works for that. But if he only just now hid it, then where is he . . .

She opened her mind, reaching out to beg the Force for answers—but before it could offer one, movement flashed at the edge of her vision. Luminara stuffed the saber into the folds of her cloak, tried to settle her mind enough to project a strong suggestion of You want to leave this woman alone . . .

Before she could even finish the thought, a hooded stranger had slid into her booth. For a moment, her heart leapt—first in fear of discovery, then in wild hope that this the man she was looking for had come at last—

Then the stranger pulled back his hood.

Luminara's mind went completely blank, any attempt at concealment or flight banished by surprise. By contrast, the man across from her projected concern, intensity—but beyond that, an unsettling degree of confidence.

"I'm glad you're here, Luminara," said Anakin Skywalker.

Hearing him speak—a voice she'd not heard in years—Luminara recovered enough to shove the saber even deeper into hiding. "What—what are you doing here—"

"When he called me," Anakin continued, his hushed voice effortlessly cutting across hers, "I was worried that he'd only called me." He threw a glance over his shoulder, then looked back at her, a grim smile on his face. "But this? We can work with this."

She stared at him, unable even to blink. "Anakin, what are you talking about?"

He placed his elbows on the tabletop, leaning in close. His next words came in a whisper—but even as Luminara strained to hear it, his voice carried the same cool confidence that sat behind his eyes.

"Obi-Wan's in a lot of trouble, Luminara. I need your help to get him out of it."


Anakin's glance flitted from exit to exit—the pub's front door, so very far from where he sat now, tables and chairs and clusters of people blocking any direct path to it. The rear service entrance, far closer to their table, an unassuming slab of metal set into the wall behind the bar. It probably spilled out into whatever rickety walkway passed for an alley down here—and was probably locked. Four different languages painted onto its surface all proclaimed the same message: "Staff Only—Not an Exit."

When he looked back at Luminara Unduli, her face, partially concealed by a raised hood, had slid from shock to suspicion. "We're all in a lot of trouble, Anakin."

Willing the voices in his head to stay silent—to let him work undetected, without bristling—he shook his head, a rush of air that faintly resembled laughter escaping his nostrils. "Not like Obi-Wan."

The Jedi mirrored his pose, placing her elbows on the tabletop and leaning closer. "They tried to break into the Jedi Temple!"

"And I stopped them!"

To her credit, Luminara was not about to show she'd been startled by him a second time—her only response to what he'd just hissed was to slowly lean back in her seat, her hands splayed flat on the table. But as Anakin reached out, probing with the Force just long enough to pierce her skin, he could feel the surprise roiling underneath.

Before either of them could say more, a Twi'lek waitress approached the booth, each hand bearing a mug of frothy ale. As she lowered them with a halfhearted entreaty to enjoy, Luminara didn't spare her even a glance—she had eyes only for Anakin.

Once their server had retreated, Anakin took his mug in his flesh hand and raised it to his lips, ignoring the acrid taste. As he drew in his first sip, Luminara again leaned in to whisper. "You called off the Temple attack?"

If she'd wanted to run, she would have a few moments ago. You have her.

Shaking his head, he shoved his drink away. "I found out it was happening and convinced the chancellor to call it off. He doesn't care about Obi-Wan, or any other individual Jedi. He just wants the Order dealt with. But he's not the problem.

"The guy who's running the show, Tarkin? For him, things are personal. Obi-Wan made a fool of him when this whole thing first started—slipped his tail and escaped the planet. If I tried to stop Tarkin from going after Obi-Wan, he'd see right through it. He'd think I was a traitor." He let out a long sigh. "But if we can get around him, we have a shot at getting Obi-Wan out of this mess. Despite everything that's happened, Palpatine still listens to me."

"Palpatine . . ." Luminara echoed, to herself more than to Anakin—and in that moment, he felt the voices within begin to stir. He'd just made a mistake.

"Palpatine," she repeated. "Is he—"

She halted there, but he knew what she had meant to ask. Is he a Sith Lord?

He couldn't allow her to know the answer. She would never understand the truth, the nuance. This discussion would be over before it had truly begun, the narrow-minded Jedi incapable of understanding why Anakin Skywalker was working for the Order's sworn enemy.

Stirring at the recesses of his mind, the dark voice whispered. What if they did know—knew what Palpatine was before you did? They must have sent Windu to destroy him, it was all part of their plan—

"I told him you had nothing to do with what happened," Anakin said aloud, wrenching his thoughts free of the darkness once more. There's still a way to save this. To save Obi-Wan, to save the Order, to make things right. "I told him that if you'd known what Windu was planning to do, you would have stopped him."

It was an outstretched hand—an opportunity for her to nod gratefully, to tell him that if any of the Jedi had stumbled upon the faintest hint of what Windu was planning, they would have put a stop to it right there.

And Luminara wasn't taking it. She just sat there, silent.

His lips suddenly longed for another sip of the putrid ale—they'd gone dry, and a bitter taste was on his tongue. Swallowing, he stared at the woman across the table. "Luminara . . .?"

When she spoke, her voice was as choked as his. "We did try to stop him."

"What?"

At last she reached for her drink, then stopped halfway through the motion to withdraw a shaking hand. "We had him locked up," she rasped. "I don't know how, but he convinced a few Knights to break him out. To . . . join him."

The world around Anakin seemed to go silent—the din of conversation, the clattering of glassware emanating from behind the bar—all of it fell away. They knew, and they did nothing. They let it happen. Maybe they wanted it to happen, maybe they—

"I'm sorry, Anakin," Luminara said. "I know this doesn't make things easier for you."

"It doesn't matter," he hissed, anger leaking bile into the words before he could stop it. They know exactly what they're doing. Let them run, let them scatter, let them tear their Order apart, they can't be saved, they don't want to be saved—

STOP! his mind shouted back. There is still a way to fix this. Still a way to right the ship.

"It doesn't matter," he repeated, forcing himself calm—"whether it's easy for me. I'm not the one who can help Obi-Wan." He forced himself to give a tired smile, gesturing across the table. "You are."

Her eyes narrowed. "You have a plan."

For a moment, it was almost amusing—the exact inverse of what Amina had said to him earlier that day. She'd been admiring, anticipative. Luminara was far more wary, far more reserved—but he still had her interest. That would have to do for now.

"You're evacuating the Jedi Temple—"

"The Republic knows that?" Luminara interrupted.

Anakin shrugged. "They suspect it."

A long, shuddering sigh escaped her lips. "Fair enough." She reached for her drink, fingers steady this time, and took a vigorous pull.

"But they don't know how to stop it," Anakin continued, "and they certainly don't have a way inside. They won't for several days, at least. They're all competing with each other to be the first to break into the Temple instead of pooling their resources to find a way in together, which buys us time.

"Look, I'm sorry about this whole mess. I—I wish I'd realized what was going on sooner. What was really going on, I mean . . ."

Funny—you almost seem to mean that, the dark voice whispered. Not acting at all . . .

Vader's heel stamped down on the voice's mouth, crushing it silent. Shaking his head, Anakin, pushed forward, accelerating the words he'd taken care not to rehearse too carefully beforehand. "Look, I don't know why Obi-Wan came back, but when he gets here, you take him back with you. Not just to the Temple—offworld, away from Coruscant. Tonight, if you can."

He'd focused so much on rushing his speech, infusing each word with urgency, that he only belatedly realized the Jedi was now frozen in place, her mug of ale resting at her lips. She stared into the depths of the glass, never tilting it backwards to take another drink.

"Luminara?"

Her arm trembled again as she lowered the mug to the table. "Anakin . . . I think we missed him. I think he's already come and gone."

"No," Anakin said, "that's not—"

With a weighty thunk, she slammed a metal cylinder on the tabletop in front of her.

Anakin raised his eyebrows as he laid eyes on the lightsaber, letting it linger on the table for slightly longer than he should have before reaching across to shove it back into Luminara's lap. "Put that away," he hissed, "before someone sees it."

"It's his."

"It's ours," he corrected. "We built that one together back at the start of the war. A backup, in case one of us needed it."

Unbidden, his memories strayed to that night in his old master's apartment almost a year ago—Obi-Wan watching his friend run his fingers along the hilt. "It's been mine ever since I lost the old one. I didn't want to waste time building another one fresh, and . . . there's something about this one. The best of both of us—"

Anakin banished the memory. "He must have stashed it here before the meeting," he said, carefully injecting a note of protest into his voice. "Just in case."

"Or he left it here for us to find," Luminata countered. "What if it's a warning? What if they've already got him?"

She's nearly there. Push harder. Make her convince herself.

"Impossible," he said, letting the protest turn a bit more vehement—the voice of someone trying to convince himself of something he already knows isn't true. "The Coruscant Guard doesn't patrol down here. I'm pretty sure that's why he picked this place."
"They could have followed him." Luminara glanced down in her lap, staring at the saber. "Or me." Trailing off into a brief silence, she shifted her gaze upward until she was staring at Anakin.

"Or you."

He allowed panic to form on his face—fueled as the best acts were by real nerves, his shaky hands and racing heart. Even his mechanical limb seemed to vibrate. Opening himself into the Force just enough to let the Jedi sense the rising knot of anxiety, he thought loudly enough for her to hear, Oh you are so stupid, Skywalker—

"You have to leave," he said aloud, stretching his arm across the table and holding out an open palm. "Give me that thing and get out of here."

Instead she recoiled, drawing further back into her seat and wrapping a protective grip around the lightsaber. "Why?"

"I can pass it off as evidence, something I was always planning to turn over to the authorities. If they catch you with it, they'll just arrest you. Go home and find a way off the planet, right now."

"What about Obi-Wan?"

Anakin let himself look like he was hesitating, searching for an answer. "I'll figure something out."

"I thought you couldn't do anything to help him!"

"And if they catch us together with that, I won't be able to help anybody—"

A sharp crack sounded from the entrance of the pub—a plastoid-armored shoulder slamming into a wooden door.

A single blaster shot rang out, silencing the crowd inside as it slammed into the ceiling and sent splinters raining down from its impact point. The smell of burnt ozone hung in the air as a shout filled the silence. "Everybody OUT!"

The pub's patrons bolted to their feet, shoving past each other to be the first out the front door. Anakin began to slide his way out of the booth, reaching down to unholster the blaster pistol hiding beneath his jacket. Luminara followed suit, still holding the lightsaber in her right hand.

No sooner had they stood up than another shout rang out. "Not you, Anakin!"

The pub had nearly emptied, the scattering of chairs and tables now a veritable obstacle course between the duo and the front door—and beyond even that, there stood another obstacle.

Amina, officer of the Coruscant Guard, flanked by two armed and armored troopers. She held her own blaster high, angling it downward from the ceiling to train it on the two would-be escapees. Anakin shifted sideways until he alone stood in the line of fire, Luminara safe behind him.

"Step aside, Skywalker," Amina said—still shouting despite the absence of all other noise. "You are done interfering with my work."