“Okay, everyone learns.” Cody stood with hands on hips, looking down at the ground. “But don’t expect things to improve any time soon.”
Rex wasn’t sure who to sink his teeth into. Skywalker didn’t have any more say in the assets he was given than Rex did. Kenobi probably didn’t, either. The problem was higher up the chain; and one thing he’d worked out fast after he left the confines of Kamino, where they learned only the military solutions and how to be the best soldiers, was that politicians didn’t think like soldiers, and did stupid things for reasons best known to themselves.
Rex had heard Skywalker mutter occasionally about the Jedi Council and his . . . disagreements. Now he understood. It was down to the Jedi Council to tell the Chancellor to pick his battles carefully.
Rex swallowed his frustration for the time being. He could tell Cody was getting restless by his habit of rocking back slightly on his heels.
“Okay, tinnies really are useless in nonstandard situations and confined spaces,” Rex said. “Proven. All they seem to know how to do is stand up and march forward firing. If we do the same, we just run out of men. We need to avoid engaging them on that kind of terrain. Maybe commit fewer ground troops and hit harder from the air. Maybe Kenobi can feed that back up the chain.”
“Where’s Skywalker?” Cody asked.
“Crash-landed on Tatooine, but the Hutt’s still alive, according to General Kenobi’s report.”
“Mission accomplished, then. It wasn’t in vain, Rex.”
Rex was going to say that if the access to the Outer Rim routes was matched with a more realistic approach to the number of battles they could fight, then it had achieved something. But he had a feeling that it wouldn’t change a thing, but just spread the Grand Army more thinly.
He had faith in Skywalker, because the man was in there with them, in the thick of it, and he understood the stakes. Rex found his faith was like the atmosphere, getting thinner the higher it went.
“I’ll go round up my men, then,” Rex said, turning to the aid station set up in one of the gunships that had landed on the perimeter. “It won’t take long.”
TWENTY
We’ve secured the Hutt location, sir. Senator Amidala’s unharmed and she’s returning to the Senate with her protocol droid. We have Lord Ziro in custody. He’s claiming he was forced into the kidnapping of Jabba’s son by Count Dooku. Zero casualties—unless you count droids, of course.
CLONE COMMANDER FOX, reporting a successful hostage extraction to GAR HQ
JABBA’S PALACE, TATOOINE
“LORD JABBA, WE’VE located Skywalker.” The captain of the Nikto guard came in at a brisk walk. “He’s approaching the palace on a speeder bike. I’ve positioned snipers on the roof. Permission to use lethal force, my lord?”
Jabba concentrated on not letting grief overwhelm him. Anger was a good temporary antidote, a brief respite of cold focus.
“No, bring him to me alive,” he said. “I want him to tell me what he’s done with my son’s body. After that, I don’t want to be too hasty about killing him. I’ll spend a few weeks about it, perhaps. And then the Sarlacc will take a few thousand years to digest him. No, I won’t spare Skywalker with a quick death.”
Jabba had his full entourage assembled. He wanted to crawl into a dark corner and bellow until the agonizing emptiness in his chest stopped, but he had to be seen to be strong and still in control. If he wasn’t, the kajidic families, and so Hutt society, would fall into chaos and leave Hutts weak. He needed an audience to witness that even in his darkest moment, he remained in command.
A Nerrian piper played a lament in the background. Rotta’s crib lay empty to one side of the dais. Eventually, Jabba heard droid footsteps, and TC-70 walked in carrying a lightsaber.
“Skywalker surrendered his weapon without a fight, my lord,” said the droid. “He asked for his Padawan.”
Nikto and human footsteps came down the passage. Skywalker entered almost casually, certainly not a human preparing to die, and looked around as if he expected to see something.
His focus seemed to fall on the empty crib. Then he looked at the piper.
“Lord Jabba, where’s my Padawan?” He spoke Huttese with a strong Mos Espan accent. “Where’s your son?”
The piper stopped in midrefrain. Jabba didn’t dare look away from the Jedi in case his rage now boiled over and left him helpless.
“My son . . . is where you left his body, you murdering Jedi filth.”
“Your son is alive, unless Dooku’s MagnaGuards killed him along with my Padawan. She was bringing him—she should have been here by now.”
Jabba edged forward a little. “If you were any other human idiot, I would take your feeble attempt to deceive me as simple stupidity. But you know us, Skywalker, because you were raised here here, a shag, a common slave, and so you know you insult me in my grief.”
Skywalker paused for a moment, blinking, and then reached out his hand. The lightsaber TC-70 was holding flew across the chamber and into the Jedi’s grip, and within seconds the Nikto guards had crashed against the wall as if thrown by an invisible hand. Skywalker ignited the weapon and batted away blaster fire before leaping onto the dais and holding the glowing blade to Jabba’s throat.
Jabba should have been outraged, but for a moment he felt that it would have been an end to the pain he was in. Then he found habit taking over. He did what he had always done; he sat defiant and unmoved. Hutts couldn’t run. They’d made stalwart defense into a tactic instead.
“So Dooku was right,” Jabba said. “You killed my son, and now you come to kill me.”
Jabba knew the Nikto guards couldn’t open fire. They risked hitting him, and Skywalker might kill him simply by deflecting the bolts. Everyone froze.
“No, I didn’t come here to assassinate you.” Skywalker actually looked into his eyes. Jabba could see that it was a struggle for him. “I came here to negotiate.”
“Then you’ll still die, shag.”
“Somewhere out in the desert, my Padawan is making her way here with Rotta. She’s been attacked by MagnaGuards, I know that. I’ve fought Dooku to get here. Instead of having your heavies make themselves useless here, why don’t they get out and look for her?”
“Another feeble attempt at a trick, Jedi?”
Skywalker couldn’t stand here forever. He must have known he would be overwhelmed sooner or later, so he was buying time. Jabba felt no fear. He had no room for it right then.
“Guards,” he said. “See if the Jedi’s reinforcements are coming. Then kill them.” He swiveled his head to stare at Skywalker, trying to see something in the human’s face that would explain how he could kill an infant. Humans—most sentient species, in fact—were disarmed by something small and helpless, even if it wasn’t their own kind. It was a very primal instinct. Jabba even found baby humans quite appealing—until they grew up, of course.
But Skywalker killed children. It made him something dangerous and different. Jabba consoled himself thinking how easily humans broke, and the many ways he could break them.
The minutes ticked away.
Skywalker’s time was running out. Jabba could see sweat on his top lip.
“My lord Jabba!” The guard’s voice rang down the corridor, the nearest Jabba had heard to a Nikto sounding excited. “The Jedi’s here with her droid! She’s got him! It’s not an explosive device!”
Him?
It took Jabba a few moments to take that in. He turned his head slowly, steeling himself against the inevitable plunge into deeper grief at a dashed hope. It couldn’t mean that. It couldn’t.
A tiny Togruta female—disheveled, streaked with blaster burns, caked with sand—stumbled into the chamber carrying a bundle on her back that was too big for her. She twisted from the hip, almost collapsing, as she set it down on the dais.
It’s not an explosive device.
“Well done, Snips,” Skywalker said. He let out a long sigh and shut down the lightsaber. “You look
awful.”
The Togruta unwrapped the bundle, and Jabba didn’t quite manage to maintain an icy dignity. His composure slipped, but he caught it quickly.
“My . . . son,” he said. Rotta gurgled and squealed happily at the sound of his voice. “Hand . . . him to me.”
TC-70 stepped in. “Lord Jabba says to put his son in his arms.”
And she did. She looked as if it was one more effort she could hardly make, but she lifted Rotta into his arms. His son felt lighter and thinner, but he was alive. He was alive and well.
“There you go, Stinky,” she said. She gave him one of those smiles, all teeth. “Safe with Dad again. I’ll miss you.”
Jabba would have replied in her language, in Basic, but he had an image to maintain. This was his world. Foreigners spoke his language.
The court seemed to breathe again. The piper struggled for a happier tune, and the servants chattered excitedly.
Jabba had his son back. He was barely able to believe it. Dooku had conned him, but so had the Jedi. They were all the same, these humans, only after his favor for what they could wring out of it in their interminable little squabbles. He wouldn’t let relief get in the way of business yet.
“Now, Jedi,” Jabba said. “You still die.”
ANAKIN DECIDED he should have known better. It would take more than a tearful reunion—if Hutts had that depth of feeling in them—to make Jabba see reason.
“Okay, I’m the one you’ve got the problem with,” Anakin said. “Let Ahsoka leave with my astromech. She saved your son a dozen times since we found him on Teth. She doesn’t deserve this.”
Ahsoka’s eyes darted from face to face; she didn’t speak Huttese. She had no idea what was going on, other than that the trouble wasn’t over. She looked like she’d fought off an army. MagnaGuards weren’t battle droids. Anakin was amazed she’d survived.
She saved Rotta. In the end, she saved him, I didn’t. I can’t save anyone even when I try.
“Tell Lord Jabba,” she said to TC-70, “that he needs to speak to Senator Amidala. I got a comm message when jamming stopped. General Kenobi said she needed to speak to him urgently about his uncle Ziro. He’s been arrested.”
Jabba moved to the comlink on his dais even before TC-70 finished two words. So Jabba understood Basic just fine; Anakin noted that. He’d always suspected the Hutt did. But the terror of the moment was so intense that even the words Senator Amidala didn’t set his pulse pounding.
Padmé. My wife. Hey, that’s my wife.
The hologram of Padmé appeared instantly, as if she’d been waiting for a long time to take the message.
“Lord Jabba.” She bowed her head, ever the diplomat. “Your uncle Ziro has been arrested after conspiring with Count Dooku to kidnap your son and depose you, and incriminating the Jedi to sabotage negotiations with the Republic.”
“Prove it,” said Jabba.
TC-70 translated. “Lord Jabba says prove it.”
“You can speak to Ziro now, Lord Jabba, from the custody cell.” Padmé leaned out of the margin of the image, and her place was taken by a hologram of a Hutt.
“You better have a good story, Ziro . . . ,” Jabba said.
Ziro started begging right away. “Nephew, I would never harm Rotta! Dooku made me do it! He threatened me, he threatened to kill me—”
“You should have let him,” Jabba said. “Because when I get hold of you, I’ll make you understand that Hutt does not betray Hutt. I’ve seen enough. Put me back to the Senator.”
Padmé reappeared. Anakin edged into the transmitter’s field of view so she could see him. She smiled, a little distant, but he could see she was playing the politician today. Their marriage was a secret as much for her sake as his.
“General Skywalker,” she said, bowing her head again. “Thank you for your assistance in resolving this.”
“And thank you, Senator.” Anakin hoped he was doing his gritty warrior expression, but judging by the look on Ahsoka’s face, he wasn’t succeeding. It was hard to stand at the brink of death and have your secret love intervene, and not let that show on your face. “Padawan Tano, Captain Rex, and Torrent Company of the Five-oh-first were all instrumental in achieving this.”
And there goes Padmé, saving me.
She smiled her professional smile again, but she almost winked. “Lord Jabba, perhaps we can now agree on Republic use of your routes for military traffic, and bring this war to an end.”
TC-70 translated. Jabba, bouncing Rotta on his belly the way a human would use their knee, laughed raucously, like his old self.
“Tell the Senator it’s a deal. And I want Dooku brought to justice, too.”
That was the moment at which Anakin felt he could safely let his legs give way to the adrenaline, and fall off the dais. Instead, he simply stepped down, beckoned to Ahsoka to follow him, and walked out of the chamber to find R2-D2.
If he ever came back to Tatooine again, it would be too soon.
DOOKU’S SHIP, LEAVING HUTT SPACE
Dooku waited for a dressing-down from Sidious, but it never came. The hologram of the Sith Lord sat in composed calm as if hearing a minor inconvenience.
“Master, I regret to tell you that the Jedi succeeded, and now have their agreement with the Hutts,” Dooku said. “This will make the Outer Rim far harder to hold.”
“You’re aware of the saying about battles and wars, are you not, Count Dooku? You can lose one and yet win the other?”
“I am, Master.”
“Then allow them this victory. It makes little difference to the overall course of the war. It stretches their forces more thinly. It makes them overconfident. In fact, losing this small skirmish may well be their downfall when history views the war in years to come.”
Dooku had considered that, but as a consolation. Sidious made it sound as if it was intended. “You’re very gracious, Master.”
“No, Count Dooku. I’m very pragmatic.”
The hologram was gone, and Dooku was sitting at his apocia desk again in the darkened compartment that, if he ignored the flashing console on the bulkhead, could have been a study in a grand castle.
Galidraan loomed in his memory once more, snow-shrouded and accusing. Dooku pondered on yet another ferocious battle that had ended in a way he hadn’t bargained on, and repeated the question: What have we done?
He had done his duty.
And he’d do it again. He’d do it until the day he died, until the Jedi were destroyed, until Mustafar itself froze as white and cold as Galidraan.
EPILOGUE
LANDING AREA, JABBA’S PALACE, TATOOINE
REX WAITED IN the hatch of the LAAT/1 gunship while Kenobi and Yoda sat inside, talking. He didn’t listen to the Jedi Masters’ conversation, which was barely a few words anyway.
He was waiting for his general.
Skywalker and Ahsoka appeared severed in half at first, caught in a mirage of hot air that shimmered over the sand. As they drew closer, they resolved into solid shapes, with the astromech droid rumbling ahead of them. Rex jumped down to meet them halfway.
Skywalker held out his hand and Rex shook it. “I’m glad to see you, Captain.”
“Me too, sir.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t return.”
“No problem, sir. It gave General Kenobi something to do, anyway. You know how bored he gets.”
Skywalker laughed. He looked a mess and he reeked of Hutt. “Bad news for me, though?”
“Five men.”
Ahsoka looked up. “Five dead?”
“Five alive. Plus me.”
“Oh,” she said, in a surprisingly small voice. “Oh my. The men I was talking to in the hangar . . .”
“Yes, littl’un. Them too.”
“Give me a report,” Skywalker said quietly. “Not the usual official record. I want to hear it all. Names. I want to hear how six of you held a droid army at bay, Rex.”
“Oh, boring stuff.” Rex turned to the gunship, almost unable to bear th
e thought because they’d have to get up tomorrow and do it all again. “It’s not that important, is it?”
“It is to me,” Skywalker said.
“And me,” said Ahsoka.
Rex nodded.
It made all the difference.
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