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Chapter 27

The Arc of Morality

Cuimhn had little to recommend it before The Red Death. The city's origin traced back to the revolution. It was originally part of Podra, the former capital, which became five jurisdictions following the war. Cuimhn was the least important of these spun-off cities, a tepid mix of trade schools and industry.

But the plague changed everything. Blessed with few infected, Cuimhn was the perfect place for Mareth's rulers to regroup. They killed their infected and severed all ties with the rest of the planet. Cuimhn was reshaped into a modern metropolis. Engineers added section upon section, under protection of the military. The population was growing, now that the Maretheans had accepted their new world.

There was shocking continuity in systems and culture. Mareth's memory-based economy continued to thrive. Thus art and writing remained vital. Paintings, journals, and holo-vids were the only sure ways to preserve your history. One family emergency and the best moment of your life could be forever lost.

People off-world would call this savage. Perhaps it was. Yet I must suggest this: we've mythologized principle, but the arc of morality bends toward nihilism.

Padme had never been to Mareth, despite battling its rulers in the galactic senate. Largely thanks to her efforts, the quarantine was passed by a narrow margin. At the time, its stark consequences seemed a bad dream. But her bed on Coruscant was a long way away.

She glimpsed Cuimhn through the window of the government building. Many stories below, in what was left of the Upper City, a people drafted to die went about their affairs. Life finds a way, her father used to tell her.

Premiere Hall, the headquarters of Mareth's central government, was made entirely of glass. The sun poured through the ceiling, so an orange halo capped everyone's heads, and continued to the floor, which like a clock without a face showed the machinery that fulcrumed the building.

"Wait here," said their escort.

Padme took the opportunity to study her friend. His eyes were still glassy.

"I'm fine," said Obi-Wan.

"Julian should look at you."

"In due course. I hope you realize this is only the beginning."

Fear squeezed her voice into a higher octave. "If that's only the beginning, it will be the end of us all."

He tried to focus on her worry, but it was all he could do to stand. He hoped the first time was worst, that each theft got easier. He prayed his brain tissued over every scalpeled experience. Better a scar than the gaping maw he had now.

"And what's next?" Bail thundered. "Do we burn everyone accused of sedition? We are not Sith!"

"If that plague escapes, it could kill the whole galaxy!" Padme fired back. "It's ravaged Mareth in thirty-six hours!"

Bail's palm slammed on the desk. "I will not condemn them before we've even tried to help! Every disease has a cure. They need doctors, healers!"

"And how many would you spare? We're at war, Bail. And severely short of medical professionals. Mareth is lost. Sending doctors to their death won't help anything."

This wasn't the woman he befriended. She was colder now, simpler. More like a Jedi. "You'd let millions of children die, without even trying."

"And you'd kill billions, just to say you did try," Padme retorted. "Neither one of us will sleep. But only one of us is right. You make your speech. I'll make mine. The Senate will decide Mareth's fate."

"And who decides yours?" Bail asked quietly.

Padme poured herself a drink. Her first in years. "History, Bail."

Gentle string music floated through the room. The walls were adorned with impressionist paintings, depicting villages from pre-industrial Mareth. The artist's care was commendable. Each raindrop was totally unique. Every slat of the village rooves was lovingly detailed. It transported Padme back to Naboo.

Obi-Wan flicked a hand to black out the cameras. "They knew we were coming."

Padme turned at his voice. "The saboteur?"

"Presumably. The important thing is the Sith were here first. I'm sure they tried to make a deal."

"I don't like our chances," Padme lamented. "You may be The Negotiator—but I'm a lead weight."

Obi-Wan read a pain only he would recognize. "They may not admire you. But they'll take a good deal."

"And what are we offering?"

"Everything it takes."

Padme acquiesced to Obi-Wan's surety. But there was something nagging at her. She thought back to the crew's discussion about Mareth. "Back on the Tangent: there was something you didn't tell us. I saw your face when you looked at the holograph."

Obi-Wan's mouth compressed. "The text. It was in my handwriting."

Padme's head jerked back. A sudden coldness filled her belly. "What does that mean?"

"It means you were right," Obi-Wan said. "It means an older version of myself traveled through time. He wrote that message. He made it deliberately obtuse so only I understood." He pulled at his beard before he finally met her eye. "Those ruins hold the answers."

"That's good, isn't it?" Padme said.

"The Sith don't know what the message means. But I'm sure they've seen the holograph. They're looking for the site just like we are."

Padme wrinkled her brow. "It has to be Palmer. He's the saboteur."

"I trusted him," argued Obi-Wan. "At least—the other me did. He sent Palmer the holograph. He showed Palmer the cavern on Halm. There has to be a reason."

Padme didn't miss the pain-brackets etched around his mouth. Each moment of intense focus was making his head ache. "It's called Post-Cognition Syndrome. Everyone gets it the first time they..." She couldn't bring herself to say it.

Obi-Wan's breath caught looking in her eyes. No strength of will could return his lost experience. When it first crept into his head that it lived on in Padme, he hadn't felt peace, hadn't felt glad for her; instead, he'd wished their roles were reserved. This lasted just a moment, released into the Force. But he'd never forgive himself for what he'd desired.

"Padme—"

The door opened, and a young woman said, "The Premiere will see you now."

Premiere Karn was the rare man who got away with his mistakes, possessed of a swagger that fringed on delusion. He liked to call himself the grandson of the revolution. Yet he couldn't conceive his power was tenuous. This ignorance was, to a large degree, liberating.

Out of Karn's arrogance peered an erudite devil. "Senator Amidala: you're far prettier in person." He reveled at Padme's paleness. "You probably don't remember me. I was only a councilman. I never had the pleasure of challenging you in the Senate."

"It was a busy time."

"That's chillingly quaint."

Her tightened jaw made lumps along her cheeks. "I know I'm not welcome here. I'm sure you hate me, Premiere. But I won't tell you I made a mistake."

"You traded our lives to ensure your own safety."

"Not my safety," said Padme. "The safety of trillions."

Karn curled his lip, and a dark veil unfurled in the Force. Suddenly Obi-Wan's mind filled with Karn's memories. The dead, too numerous to bury, piled ten high on cordoned-off streets. Tears upon tears, until everyone realized crying didn't work.

Karn quietly raged, "Does a mother look in a child's eyes and console her with math?"

Padme's eyes screamed, at Karn and herself. "Ask yourself the question. We saw all the cities you burned to the ground."

Obi-Wan flashed his palm. "We can litigate the past, or we can find a way forward." Neither party seemed amenable, but the Premiere was first to bury his anger. His tilted head signaled Obi-Wan to speak.

"You have something we need. We have something you want."

"What I want," said Karn, "is to deny you what you need."

"Do your people feel the same? There's twenty thousand Maretheans who weren't here when the plague struck. How many families could be reunited?"

"You would lower the force field?" Karn said with forced amazement.

"Not only the force field," Obi-Wan said. "The Republic will destroy every trace of the disease—including the infected. We'll rebuild your planet solely at our expense."

It was a triumph of discipline that Karn didn't move. This was more than he expected from the judgmental Republic. "You're looking for ruins?" asked Karn.

"One site in particular," Obi-Wan said.

"I'm afraid I can't help you. We had a city-wide power failure early this week. The bureau of antiquities lost its records."

That sounded like the Sith. Either by their own hand or under agreement. Obi-Wan pressed, "Surely something survived."

"You are welcome to inquire," Karn assured him. "You and your crew may move about Cuimhn. But there is one condition." Obi-Wan tracked Karn's eyes to the saber on his belt. "You'll relinquish your weapon. There will be no war here."

The Jedi smiled inside at Karn's smugness. He let his arms hang, unclipping his saber with a psychic suggestion. The hilt floated from his belt, hanging in the air just out of reach.

Karn's jaw constringed. He saw his own face reflected on the chrome.

"I'm curious," said Obi-Wan, "if you have any more of these."

"How could I?" asked Karn.

"How indeed."

Karn plucked it from the air. He tested its weight but eyeballed Padme. Callous bemusement coated his voice. "Senator Amidala, may I ask if you're armed?"

"My station suffices," Padme said.

"Let us hope. It is a—busy time." His lips had raised snarling. Blithe darkness mottled his face. A deep chill rippled through Padme.

"Thank you for your time, Premiere," Obi-Wan said.

"Is he working with the Sith?" Padme asked.

"Perhaps. Surely they offered the same deal we did. At the very least, the Premiere would allow them in Cuimhn."

"So what do we do?"

"We pay a visit to the bureau of antiquities," Obi-Wan said. "The records may have been lost. But that doesn't mean no one remembers." They descended the steps from Premiere Hall, drawing looks at their hazard suits. "First, the Tangent. I'm going to need help."

Parked at the curb was a dirty taxi. A grizzled cabbie, leaning on the door, took a long drag from his flavored death stick. "Looking for a ride?"

Obi-Wan saw a sign mounted to the roof. It read 'Two-memory minimum.'

"I think we'll walk," he said.