Chapter 29: Canto Di Sirene

—Part Two—

Dromund Kaas was drowning. Above the ancient city, a swarm of blackened thunderclouds so thick they blocked out the stars, belched a murderous chaos of rain and lightning upon the centuries-long-weathered necropolis. As if they had ingested poison and were working to rid themselves of the insidious toxin. Vader could relate. For he too had been poisoned. Not by some invisible force or unknown assailant... but by his own Master.

High upon the palace balcony, overlooking the city like a silent death wraith, Vader gazed contemplatively upon the nightscape. Hands locked behind his back. Feet shoulder-width apart in parade rest. Water droplets pattering off the polished dome of his helmet, sliding down the sharpened angles of his mask, dripping onto the pectoral armour covering his chest and shoulders. Hung heavily from the chain secured around his neck, his floor-length cloak gently undulated on the icy breeze, the constant rain saturating the long, armour-weave garment right through to its every fibre.

Vader scarcely noticed the rain. He was too deep in the Force. Lost in the dark malevolent currents churning all around and through him. Probing his anger. Needling his senses. Feeding the insatiate dragon no longer slumbering inside him.

For two weeks he had endured beatings, torture, and an endless barrage of emotional and mental manipulation at the hands of his Master. And for what? To be left weakened, broken, emotionally worn down and abandoned? Obi-wan was right, he did need to rest. But he knew that he couldn't. Every time he closed his eyes, he thought of Padmé. Saw Bail Organa squeezing her hand in the Senate. Heard Organa's grating voice echoing inside his head —just like it had over Padmé's com in his apartment— that blasted serpent of a Senator reciting all the lies he was no doubt trying to fill her head with in an effort to keep her at his side.

Several hours had passed since Obi-wan had left to contact Padmé, and he was still yet to report back. Not that Vader envisioned his call actually changing anything. Padmé was nothing if not stubborn. And it certainly wouldn't help his cause if Boba Fett managed to get through to the Viceroy and deliver his own ultimatum first.

Suddenly uneasy at the thought, Vader worked his jaw, shifted his boots through the puddle on the balcony. As if matters weren't already bad enough, he'd then found out his freighter hadn't arrived. Of course, he'd contacted Coruscant port control as soon as he'd realised, and had since persuaded them into dispatching his ship, but even now, it was still forty-six hours away. So, not only was Padmé not here with him, but he also had no possible way of escaping his pain or the suit. Everything was on that freighter. Everything! The bacta tank. The hyperbaric chamber. All the food, munitions, and medical supplies needed to support his growing forces and family here on Dromund Kaas.

It was as if the Force was punishing him. Exacting its revenge for his actions almost one standard year ago. As if being enslaved to his Master and being imprisoned inside the suit wasn't adequate punishment in itself. As if the constant nightmares and memories plaguing his every waking thought weren't already tormenting enough.

"Master?" Syrennè called to him from inside the suite, and Vader half turned, glanced across his shoulder to his apprentice.

"You should come in out of the rain, and try to get some rest," she said, walking toward him. "We both know that you need it."

Vader shifted back to stare at the city. "Do we?" he snarled in response. "Tell me, apprentice... since when do you presume to know... what it is that I need?"

She stopped beside him on the balcony, placed a warm hand upon his arm. "Master... You're projecting your pain like a neon sign. Anyone with the Force within a half-mile radius would be able to tell how you're feeling."

He turned his head to regard her. "Is that so?"

Syrennè gazed up to his mask and nodded.

Hearing this, he expelled a weary sigh and went silent. So, the damage to his shields was far worse than he'd suspected. The question was now: was it the toxic serum weakening his abilities, or simply another unforeseen after-effect of his Master's failed dyad attempt? Unable to decide, Vader blew out a frustrated breath, turned to brace his hands upon the balustrade, resumed his vigil on the city. "You are supposed to be meditating."

"Yeah, I know. But it's kinda hard to focus when you're out here broadcasting your emotions to the galaxy like a wailing klaxon." Syrennè rubbed at his arm through the suit. "What happened to you anyway? You're usually so well-guarded. Right now, I can feel and sense everything."

Vader looked down, regarded the street immediately below the balcony ledge. "Nothing of any importance."

"Nothing?" Syrennè echoed in disbelief. Undeterred by his dismissal, she gently pulled on his arm, tried to coax him into turning around...

And furious, Vader whirled on her. Balled his hands tight into fists.

His apprentice didn't shy away. She faced him head-on, took a careful step forward and closed the short distance between their two bodies. Then, not saying a word, she reached for both his arms and held them tight. And a sudden wave of calming energy washed over him. First tingling, then numbing; the unexpected sedating sensation starting first in his head, then working its way down his back, right through to what remained of his arms and legs.

Closing his eyes inside the mask, Vader blew out one long and steady breath. Felt the anger he'd been so desperately nursing gradually bleed from his veins. He was exhausted he knew. So tired of constantly fighting with himself. So tired of feeling powerless and trapped inside his own broken body.

"Come on..." Syrennè said to him then, and tugged his arm toward the suite. "There's no point in you staying out here like this. Let me take you inside and get you dried off."

And after a long moment, he did.

YAVIN 4: MASSASSI HEADQUARTERS: SENATOR BAIL ORGANA'S PRIVATE CHAMBERS

"Instead—You chose the rebellion. You chose Organa. Over me."

Padmé rubbed at her bump hoping to ease the churning. She couldn't get his voice out of her head. The anger; the hurt; the jealousy. It made her sick to the stomach.

It had been four hours since Anakin had hung up, and since then, their baby hadn't stopped punishing her. But it wasn't just their baby. She had one of the worst headaches she could remember, her heart wouldn't stop racing, and a solid lump of dread was stuck in her throat. And the very last thing she felt like, was sitting down to dinner with Bail and Ahsoka, and trying to act like she hadn't just made the biggest mistake of her life.

She missed Anakin and the twins. Missed them so much it hurt. Just thinking of what she was missing out on brought tears to her eyes. But she had to stay strong, had to remember why she was doing this in the first place. Mon Mothma wanted Anakin dead; agreeing with Ask Aak, the senator for Malastare, that the dark lord's death would leave the Imperial armed forces lost for direction. And despite the passionate speech Padmé had given during that so-called meeting at the senate — about how Palpatine would likely have some other career Imperial warlord step up in Vader's place — Mothma still seemed convinced killing Vader was their best course of action.

Somehow, she had to stop her. Not only to protect Anakin, but to also —hopefully with the help of Bail's rebellion— get rid of Palpatine once and for all.

The decision to leave Anakin that morning hadn't been easy. In fact, she'd successfully talked herself out of it several times before eventually contacting Captain Sloane. Even Threepio had disagreed and voiced his concerns on the matter. But... that dream... that vision... whatever it was... to actually be able to feel the warmth and comfort and truth of Anakin's love flowing so freely, in a place so sacred to them both; without doubt, without fear... And to know, that despite everything he had been through and done; he still had the ability to fight back the darkness and draw on the Light?

That Light had given her hope. Hope that maybe... just maybe... with Palpatine gone, there was a possibility her Ani would come back.

And that tiny glimmer of hope had been all the reasoning she'd needed. With no guarantee Anakin would ever be emotionally stable enough to take on Palpatine, she'd decided to take matters into her own hands and accepted Bail's offer to go to the rebel base. Convinced that once there, she could then use every political skill she had to persuade the Rebel leaders into taking down Palpatine. Thereby absolving Anakin of his guilt, by removing him from the situation entirely.

The idea had sounded perfect in her head at the time. What she hadn't completely thought through though, was the damage all this secrecy would inflict upon their marriage. And it had done damage; the venom and animosity she'd heard in Anakin's voice during that call alone had been enough to tell her that.

"Padmé, you've barely touched your meal," Bail called to her from across the table, interrupting her from her musings. "Is the food not to your liking?"

Both he and Ahsoka were staring at her. Both with empty dishes sat ahead of them. Padmé sighed and placed her fork back on the table beside her full plate. "Please, forgive me Bail. I'm sure the food is wonderful, but I'm not particularly hungry at the moment."

"Can I get you something else?" he asked. "Another drink, perhaps? I have a beautiful bottle of Alderaanian red I thought we might crack open tonight."

Padmé politely forced a smile, then rubbed at her aching temples. "No. No wine, thank you. But could I perhaps trouble you for a glass of water? I have the most splitting headache."

"Of course," Bail said obligingly. He pushed from the table and went to leave. "I'll be back in a moment."

He'd been gone less than a minute before Ahsoka started probing her for information.

"So, Padmé... are you going to tell me what is really going on?" asked Ahsoka, staring from the seat beside her at the table. "Or are we going to just sit here, and pretend I can't feel the troubling emotions coming from you through the Force?"

Padmé sighed and met the togruta's stare. "Should I presume pretending is not an option?"

"Come on... it's me. When have I ever betrayed a secret?"

Padmé had to look away. Tried to focus on anything besides the hurt and curiosity she'd seen hiding in Ahsoka's gaze. She couldn't tell her, not now, especially not while they were sitting inside Bail's quarters with the possibility of him walking back in at any moment.

"It's complicated, Ahsoka," Padmé said finally, and she shifted her attention to the abandoned fork by her unfinished meal. "It's not that I don't want to tell you—I do. I just can't right now. Too much is at stake."

Ahsoka went quiet, prompting Padmé to look to her. She was twisting her glass on the table, watching the liquid swirl into a vortex in exactly the same way Anakin had with his whiskey the night before she left. How could they both be so similar, yet somehow so different all at the same time?

Abruptly the glass stilled, and Ahsoka's expression hardened. "It's because of the baby, isn't it?"

Padmé felt her heart jump. She quickly looked away; certain that if she held Ahsoka's gaze a second longer her resolve would crumble. Focusing back on the fork, she laid one hand over her belly in a futile attempt to shield it. "What baby?"

An exasperated sigh echoed between them. "I know you're pregnant, Padmé," Ahsoka said after a long moment, still staring at the glass. "You might be able to hide it from Bail and the others, but you can't hide it from me. I sensed the baby's Force presence in the medical centre."

She knew it. The instant she'd felt that tingling sensation surge from Ahsoka's hand, she'd known her secret was out. And now she'd been called out on it, ultimately leaving her with only two options; deny it and hope Ahsoka would let it go, or, confirm her suspicions and appeal for her silence. "Ahsoka... you don't understand. I can't—"

Ahsoka irritably cut her off. "Who's the father?"

Padmé swallowed, forced down the lump of panic rising in her throat. She didn't want to lie, but what else could she do? If Bail found out the truth, her whole cover would be blown. And then what little credibility she had in the rebellion would be gone, and she would be left with no possible way of getting to Palpatine. Worse, she'd be leaving Anakin to confront him all on his own.

"Please, Ahsoka... don't pressure me into doing this," Padmé pleaded. "You have no idea what you're asking me to—"

A sudden and unexpected chirp rang from Padmé's wrist, and she pulled the sleeve of her robe back to check the comm.

It was Obi-wan! Did him contacting her mean that Anakin was home? Or had something gone wrong on his way there? Were the twins okay? Had something happened to them?

"Padmé! Where are you going?"

Unaware she had moved, Padmé paused by the exit, glanced over her shoulder to the togruta. "I'm sorry Ahsoka—But I have to take this." Then, she hit the door release and hurried for her suite.

DROMUND KAAS: IMPERIAL CITADEL

Obi-wan glanced from the tiny holo-scan of Padmé above the comm, to the groaning and battered remains of Eeth Koth lying behind him in the cell. The former Zabrak Jedi master was lucky to be alive. He could tell just by looking at the man, that Anakin had intended to kill him.

Koth was missing a hand, the cauterised stump of his severed sword-arm loosely bound in a bloodied bandage. His eyes were blackened, both bruised and swollen shut. Streaks of blood stained his shattered cheeks, the red viscous liquid seeping from the many large gashes and wounds covering his broken face, crusting and congealing around the oxygen tubes inserted into both his nose and mouth. R2-D2 and a medical droid were both tending to Koth. Though whether their efforts would be enough to sustain his fading life, only time would tell.

"Obi-wan," Padmé called to him across the com, "I wasn't expecting to hear from you."

He turned back to the holo-scan, the pain of seeing Koth so mortally wounded, and the anger he felt at Padmé's decision to ignore his warning and abandon Anakin, churning away in the pit of his gut. And now, seeing how surprised she was to hear from him, he could barely control his temper. "Padmé. What precisely do you think you're doing?"

She looked to him in confusion. "I had to do something, Obi-wan. I had to."

"Yes, Padmé, you did have to do something," Obi-wan scolded. "You were supposed to come back here with your husband. You were supposed to be here for your children."

"How is Anakin?" asked Padmé. "Have you seen him, has he made it back yet?"

"Yes, Padmé. Yes... He is back."

Her face seemed to pale before him, and a flash of fear flickered across her eyes. "Oh...Obi-wan, how is he? Have you spoken with him? I've been so worried. I called earlier to ask about a Jedi, and he—" Padmé sucked in a pained breath, seemed to choke on what she was going to say. "I am afraid. It didn't end well."

Obi-wan sighed and looked back to Eeth Koth. It all became clear now. All the angry bruises and gashes marking the Zabrak's face. Anakin's hesitation when he'd directed him down here. His guilt—not for defeating the Jedi in lightsaber combat, but for the way he'd so obviously lost control of his emotions after Padmé's call, then beaten the defenceless Zabrak to a bloodied-pulp.

Then there was the jealousy, and the carefully controlled rage he'd sensed in Anakin when he'd so much as spoken Organa's name. The intense hatred he'd felt radiating from him when he'd said that Padmé lied. The unabated venom in his tone when he'd said the word "lied".

Padmé was right. Their conversation hadn't ended well. Not well at all. And now, he was the one who had been left to pick up all the pieces. "Padmé, this Jedi you asked Anakin about — they didn't happen to be a Zabrak, did they?"

"He was...," replied Padmé, giving a gentle nod. "His name was Eeth Koth, though I don't suppose he's still alive. His wife Mira is here, and she's with child. She isn't doing so well without him, and she's the reason Bail asked me to come here. He hoped I could help her with the baby."

"I see..." Obi-wan said, and he glanced again to Koth. "Well, for what it's worth—he is alive. For now, at any rate." He sighed, dragged his free hand down his face. "Listen... as much as I can sympathise with your desire to help this Mira, you presently have a much bigger problem on your hands."

"I didn't come here because of Mira," Padmé interrupted. "I came here because something wonderful happened that night after your call, and I knew I had to do something. Obi-wan, Palpatine has Anakin so twisted into knots that he just gives up out of confusion. And I don't believe he's ever going to be able to stand up to him."

"And just who do you think he ran to, Padmé?" Obi-wan heatedly demanded, his anger finally getting the better of him. "You knew the situation he was in. You knew what Palpatine was doing to him. You knew how he felt towards Bail... and yet you still left with him."

For a long moment, Padmé went quiet.

Obi-wan drew in a deep breath, forced himself to relax on the exhale. His frustration wasn't getting anywhere. If anything, it only seemed to be making matters worse. He softened his tone, decided to try again. "Look Padmé, I am not trying to be the bad guy here. But it seems to me you don't fully understand just how serious this is."

He paused for a moment, stroking his beard as he fought to think how best to word his concerns. "We both know how Anakin can be... irrational at times. And well, to be honest with you... he is not exactly his usual self at the moment." He couldn't quite bring himself to spell out how badly this could go wrong. "Padmé, please... just come back. If not for your own sake, then, at least do it for Bail's."

Static filled the space between them, and Obi-wan held his breath, pleading to the Force to make her listen. Then, with tears in her eyes, Padmé looked to him and shook her head. "I can't," she whispered so quiet he barely heard her. "Obi-wan. They are going to kill him."

He almost laugh-choked at the absurdity of it. Kill who? Anakin? Good luck to them. He was about to remind Padmé that people had been trying to kill Anakin for years, but stopped short when a distant knock echoed across the comm.

"Just a minute," Padmé called over her shoulder. But the knock came again, and it was accompanied by a voice. "Padmé, are you in there?"

Panic painted Padmé's face, and she lurched for the door...

"Padmé," this other voice said, and the owner forced their way in, abruptly interjecting themselves right into the middle of their conversation. "Bail is asking for you. He has just received a... Oh!"

And there... stood right beside Padmé in the holo-scan, was Ahsoka. Obi-wan blinked, and at the sight of Anakin's old padawan, his thoughts abruptly sank into memory. He remembered the waning days of the clone war; remembered the holo-conference where he, Rex, Ahsoka, and Bo-Katan had been discussing the situation with Darth Maul on Mandalore. Remembered telling Ahsoka of Anakin's mission to spy on the Chancellor... and how he'd told her the Jedi Council was not always right, then pleaded for her to speak with him... how events at that moment had cut their conversation short...

"Hello, Master Kenobi," Ahsoka greeted, and her voice broke him from the memory. "It's been a while."

Obi-wan gazed slack-jawed at the young togruta. How much did she know? What had happened with Maul? And what was she doing there with Bail and the rebellion? Catching himself, he mentally shook his head, took another deep breath to quiet his frantic mind. "That it has, Ahsoka. Though, it's just Obi-wan now... You understand."

Ahsoka's eyes still seemed to search his, as though she sensed he was hiding something. After a moment, her gaze softened. "I understand," she said finally, then returned to Padmé. "Look, I don't mean to intrude... But Bail has just received a message, and it sounded pretty urgent. He's asked for everyone to meet in his quarters."

Padmé's demeanour changed in an instant. Her words became clipped and official, like she was addressing someone in the Senate. "Thank you, Ahsoka. I'll be in there in just a moment."

Not wasting time with good-byes, Ahsoka looked to Obi-wan, inclined her chin, and left. And the second they were alone again, Obi-wan fixed a stern gaze at Padmé across the holo-scan. "Does she know?"

Padmé gave him a blank stare. "Know what, Obi-wan?"

"About Anakin. About... well, you know?"

She looked down, shook her head. "No... And I haven't told her."

Obi-wan breathed a sigh of relief. Good. That was probably for the best. Ahsoka was a wildcard, one he would keep closely guarded until later. Plus, there was no telling how Anakin would go seeing her again. He could become volatile. Come to think of it; so, could she. He sighed and went back to the holo-scan. How many times had he said to them both that everything would be fine so long as they all stayed together? If only he'd realised back then how accurate that statement would turn out to be. "Alright... well, let's keep it that way, shall we?" he said. "If things do get worse, we might be able to use her as leverage against him."

"Leverage?" Padmé repeated. "Surely, you don't think it will come to that?"

This time it was Obi-wan's turn to look down. He couldn't exactly put his finger on it, but the dark disturbance he'd sensed earlier within Anakin's Force presence was troubling him. "I'm not sure Padmé. All I'm saying, is that I sensed something in him earlier. Something different. And it made me feel... uneasy."

There was a long silence, then, "I will talk with him, Obi-wan," Padmé assured him. "As soon as I am finished with Bail, I will give him a call."

• • •

This felt wrong. All wrong. A Sith master was not supposed to show signs of weakness before their apprentice. One to embody the power, and the other to crave it, or so it was told. And yet here Vader was. Stood motionless on the carpeted rug between his desk and the sofa. Closely monitoring his young apprentice as she reached for the chain around his neck to remove his cloak. The numbness had claimed him. Left him hollow. Empty. A ghost. The anger he'd courted earlier, now but a memory, hovering somewhere off in the distance, just out of reach.

Syrennè's hand moved up his suit toward his armour. Her small palm pressed flat against his chest. Feeling him. Exploring him. Searching for the man hidden beneath the quilted layers. Not that she would find him. He was gone. Long gone.

Dainty fingers found his control panel, traced the edges, moved on to the faceplate, carefully examined the assemblage of flashing lights and buttons. Finished with their assessment, the inquisitive fingers then left the panel for his armour. Feeling the ridges. Sliding up the polished black and silver armourplast toward his neck. A second hand came up to join the first, both finding the weighty chain securing his cloak. Fingers of the two hands moved in tandem, worked on the chain together, fiddled with the metal links until they found the clasp. Unhooked it with a clink...

And the waterlogged cloak slipped free from his shoulders.

Paralysed, Vader gazed stupefied at the girl as she stared up at him. He noted the spark of desire twinkle in her crystalline eyes. The way the tender-pink curve of her bottom lip was pinched between her teeth. Blue eyes transfixed on the lenses of his mask, she inched closer to him, laid her hands upon each of his arms, just above the elbow where the edge of his gloves terminated.

The rasp of his breathing echoed between them. The respirator's steady, monotonous rhythm belying the nervous thump in his chest. He wanted to move, pull away from the girl. Only, he seemed to have no control over himself. No matter how hard he tried, not one part of his body would respond. He was frozen in place, as if caught in the throes of some hypnotic trance, powerless to resist and completely spellbound.

Fear bubbled away at the thought, rose to the surface, formed a solid lump in his throat as Syrennè's fingers slipped beneath the thick folds of his synth-silk tabard. He stiffened again, feeling the heavy caress of her hands exploring his tightly-clenched abdominal muscles through the suit bare millimetres below the base of his ribs.

Uncomfortable and wanting her exploration to stop, Vader opened his mouth to speak... but through the numbing fog, all he could muster was a low, rumbling growl; the groggy-sounding mewl rattling through his vocoder.

"You're so tense," Syrennè was saying. She squeezed his tabard between her fingers, watched the water seep out from within the sodden fibres. "And you're soaked through. We should really get you out of this."

No. That was far enough. Calling on the Force, Vader gathered his strength, inwardly reached for his anger and prepared to channel it...

When she must've sensed his power building. In an instant, the tingling, sedating sensation he'd experienced earlier on the balcony, suddenly swept over him again. Numbing his senses. Forcing back his anger and sending it into full retreat. And as the crippling emptiness once again descended, Vader sagged forward, felt his eyes begin to roll into the back of his head.

"Master, don't try to fight it," Syrennè whispered up at him seductively, hands again on his waist, her warming power thrumming through the suit into his skin. "I am trying to help you. Just... Relax. Let yourself go."

Her purring words swam hypnotically inside his mind. The weight of his apprentice's command compelling his body to obey. Vader felt himself stagger, sensed his consciousness begin to slip from his grasp, when Syrennè grabbed hold of his hands and steadied him.

"Easy, Master... you're exhausted. Come and sit down before you collapse." Syrennè led him across the room, and when Vader sensed the sofa beside him, he yanked his hand away, braced himself on the armrest and immediately collapsed down into it.

The instant his apprentice was no longer touching him, Vader sensed his thoughts begin to clear. He opened his eyes and shifted forward in the seat, all the while paying close attention to the girl's movements ahead of him. Syrennè bent down, retrieved his dripping cloak from the floor, then headed to his desk to drape it over the back of his chair.

"Have you eaten?" she asked, perching herself opposite him on the edge of his desk.

Irritated, Vader methodically tapped his fingers upon the armrest. "No."

"Are you hungry?"

Gritting his teeth, he glowered at her from within the mask and growled. "Also... No."

Syrennè expelled a dramatic huff and sprang to her feet. "Look, I know you're angry with me—"

"Indeed..." Vader irritably confirmed, and he continued to tap at the armrest in agitation.

Seeming genuinely taken aback by his comment, his apprentice gave him a pained look, and after a long moment of awkward silence, sighed and turned away. "Well, I'm going to get something to eat," Syrennè muttered quietly. She shot him a chastened glance over her shoulder. "I found the whiskey you had stashed in the comm-room the other day. Did you want me to bring that back for you instead?"

Vader thought hard on it a moment. He probably shouldn't be drinking in his present state, but with everything that had transpired over the last few days, he decided... he just didn't care. "Fine," he snarled, dismissing Syrennè with a flick of his wrist. "Bring me the whiskey."

• • •

Feeling the troubling emotions spiralling from Anakin through the Force, Obi-wan hurried back through the twisting maze of darkened corridors, desperate to reach the main suite. Something was wrong. He could feel it. The anger he was used to, had become strangely accustomed to it over the past few months. But the fear was new. And it was powerful. Anakin was afraid, and his fear was so crippling it was pummelling Obi-wan like a concussion blaster.

Heart racing, pounding so hard he could hear his pulse throb in his ears, Obi-wan sprinted around the last bend, the one he knew led to the secret underground passage connecting Vader's comm-room to his suite and stretched out toward him with the Force. Blast! Someone else was in there with him.

"Master Kenobi, you're going too fast. Wait-up, please!"

Hearing the panting and exhausted cry ring out from the corridor behind him, Obi-wan skidded to a stop. He braced himself on the wall fighting to catch his breath. He'd forgotten about the two padawans. Had forgotten all about taking them to his room for the night. The two younglings reached his side, both breathless and puffing.

"Where... are you taking us?" the boy asked him, buckling forward and bracing his hands on his knees.

Chest heaving, Obi-wan looked back to the passage. Felt the tumult of Anakin's fear rip through him like a snowstorm. Then glanced to the padawans. They were terrified. Both with shaking limbs and wide-eyes. He couldn't take these two younglings through there. They were already scared for their lives. And seeing Vader again in such close proximity would surely traumatise them irreparably. Taking a steadying breath, Obi-wan straightened and tried to clear his mind.

"Master?" the boy asked again.

Obi-wan fingered his moustache. "Quiet. I'm thinking."

The problem was, he had no idea how else to get up there. He hadn't spent a great deal of time exploring the Citadel. In truth, he hadn't felt the need to. But he wished that he had now, the knowledge of where all these labyrinthine passageways and corridors ended would have come in handy. He could try using the Force to guide him, but with the omnipresent weight of the dark side being so suffocating here, he doubted it would help much. No, he was better off calling someone for directions. The question was, who? He couldn't call Anakin, and Artoo already had his metaphorical hands tied dealing with Master Koth and the medical droid...

Only one real solution presented itself. Fishing the comm out from his utility belt, he inputted the signal and waited for it to connect. And half a minute later, the small, translucent blue holo-image of Commander Appo rezzed into view.