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  “Says the man who diced with death in an unstable power plant,” said Anakin. “Devi told me all about it. Obi-Wan, you’re lucky you didn’t go up in a ball of burning plasma.”

  “Lucky?” He pretended offense. “Luck had nothing to do with it! Now off you go. I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

  Many of Torbel’s women and children still mingled on the square outside, eating and gossiping and gaining strength from community. A few men stood with them, but it seemed most had already returned to the mine with Rikkard, or were sorting through what was left of the refinery. Obi-Wan looked for Greti but couldn’t see her. He saw Teeba Jaklin, though, standing with Sufi and Brandeh. They didn’t notice him, paused on the charter house step, welcoming the daylight on his face. And that was fine. They’d only bombard him with questions he wasn’t feeling up to answering yet.

  He made his way to the sick house—and found Greti there, silent and hopeful by her sleeping mother’s side. She was the only one in the room who was not a patient. Seeing him she stood, fingers twisting in her fraying, patched tunic.

  “Teeb Kenobi!”

  “Obi-Wan,” he said, joining her. “How are you, Greti? How’s your mother?”

  Greti stepped aside. “You tell that to me.”

  He dropped to a crouch beside the cot and laid his palm against Bohle’s thin face. Her color was better. Her breathing, too. And he could barely feel any pain inside her. Gently he inspected her injured hand. The wound looked clean, as did her arm. She didn’t stir at his touch.

  “Teeba Sufi’s given her brew to keep her sleeping,” said Greti. “She says folk get better right fast if they’re let sleep without care.”

  Just as gently Obi-Wan laid Bohle’s arm back to the blanket. “That’s very true.” He smiled. “Your mother’s going to be fine, Greti. You don’t have to worry anymore.”

  The child’s chin lifted. In her eyes there were questions, and courage, and hope touched with fear. “I did some of it, didn’t I? I helped make her better. How did I do that?”

  He could lie. He should lie. This little girl didn’t need to know she could have been a Jedi—possibly a great one—and likely would have been, if life weren’t so unfair.

  “Teeb? Obi-Wan?” she persisted. “Did you do something to me?”

  “No,” he said quickly. “No, I promise. All I did was show your mind how it could think in a different way.”

  Greti’s fingers twisted in her tunic again. “I felt strange,” she whispered. “Warm and strong. I felt like I wasn’t inside my own skin, like I was on the outside watching.”

  “And did that frighten you?”

  She hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.” And then she shook her head. “But no. I mean—I liked it. I want to do it again.”

  “And maybe one day you will,” he said, after a moment. “Who can tell?”

  “You’re a Jedi,” she said. “Can’t you?”

  He let her see how sorry he was. She deserved so much better than this poor village on Lanteeb. “I wish I could, Greti.”

  She went very still, and her eyes filled with shadows. Then she nodded. “You’d best look in on Arrad, Teeb. His father was here before, he sat with him all night, but he’s back down the mine now.” Her face twisted. “I hate the mine.”

  “I’m sure you do, Greti,” he said, aching, and did as he was told.

  Teeba Sufi returned while he was checking Arrad’s progress. “I saw you come in here, Teeb Kenobi. Think you can’t trust me with your handiwork?”

  There was a teasing note in her voice that belied the sharp words. Obi-Wan looked up from Arrad’s splinted arms. “He seems well enough. Has he spoken yet?”

  “Opened his eyes a few minutes,” she replied. “He knew his name. Knew his father. That’s enough to be going on with.”

  Nodding, he glanced at the other cots. “I see you have three fewer patients, Teeba.”

  “On their feet and gone home, yes,” she said, well satisfied. “Not dead, which is a mercy. And these five I’ll keep asleep another day and then they’ll be shifting, too.” Moving close enough to take his chin in her fingers and tilt his face up, she pursed her lips. “Headache’s bothering you, is it? Mouth tastes like fowl splodge?”

  He blinked. “I’m fine, Teeba.”

  “Ha.” She let go of his chin and stepped back, scornful. “Like to think anyone who’s not you is a fool, is that it? I’d heard Jedi were haughty.”

  Haughty? “Teeba Sufi—”

  “Born and raised in damotite country and you think I can’t see a man touched green?” She glared. “If that’s not haughty you tell me what is. Sit where you are.”

  So he sat, feeling like a scolded youngling, and watched Teeba Sufi rummage in the supply cupboard and return to him with a stoppered bottle and a measuring cup.

  “You’re going to feel worse before you feel better, Teeb,” she said bluntly, pouring a measure of thick brownish liquid into the cup. “And you won’t be the only one.”

  “The toxic smoke,” he said, feeling his nerves tighten. “How bad will it get?”

  “Hard to say,” she said. “Your belly’s empty?”

  He took the measuring cup she held out to him. “I haven’t eaten yet, no.”

  “Good. It’ll work faster that way.”

  “Teeba…” Suddenly her forthright gaze was elusive. “Sufi. How bad will it get?”

  She looked at Greti, holding her mother’s hand and pretending not to listen to them. “Bad enough. I’ll not pretend—I’m worried. For the children most. That storm—” Her plain face pinched with fear. “We’ve all breathed too much smoke, Teeb. Trapped inside our storm shield with it for hours? That’s never happened before.” With a deep breath she calmed herself. “Drink your mix, Teeb. And you’ll need to send your young friend to me for his dose. Sooner, not later.”

  Sourly he eyed the viscous concoction. “Does it taste as bad as it looks?”

  “Worse,” she said, with a swift, grim smile. “But you’ll thank me.”

  Since he had no choice, he swallowed the disgusting liquid. Coughed and spluttered as it burned its slow way down to his protesting belly. Eyes streaming, he stared at Teeba Sufi.

  “Thank you? I doubt it!” he wheezed. “What is in that appalling stuff?”

  “This and that,” said Sufi. “Now, you’ll need more purging than one dose, Teeb Kenobi. The smoke’s soaked you, it has. Jedi or not, you’ll feel it awhile. And Torbel’s children will feel it. We need the storm shield down and good fresh air in our lungs.” She frowned. “And I’ll need to brew more purgative. I only hope I’ve enough fixings. I never thought to be dosing the whole village.”

  Nauseous, Obi-Wan pushed up from the cot-side stool and gave sleeping Arrad a last look. He could feel no danger to Rikkard’s son. The healing he’d managed for him had taken. All the young man needed now was rest and time. He was aware of a brief, silent pleasure. He’d have to remember to thank Vokara Che—all her lectures had finally paid off.

  “If you need help with your brewing, Teeba, you must ask,” he said. “Anakin and I will be leaving Torbel in a day or so, but until then—whatever we can do to help.”

  She looked him up and down. “Never thought in all my life to meet me a Jedi. Not a toe I’ve stepped off Lanteeb. Never wanted to. Never will. But even we hear things. Or we did.” She rested her hand on his arm. “You’re not what we’re told. Or—not all that we’re told.”

  Smiling, he handed her his emptied medicine cup. “Is anyone, Teeba Sufi?”

  Leaving her to stare after him, he took himself outside to the village square, where Jaklin and some other women were tidying up the remains of the community breakfast while a few of the children kicked their synthafibe ball around. Jaklin saw him and beckoned him over.

  “You’ve not eaten,” she said accusingly, and handed him a plate with bread and egg and meat on it. “It’s cold now, I can’t help that. Eat. And then there’s tea in a pot. I’ll pour it when you’re ready.
”

  His belly still churned from his dose of purgative, but he needed the nourishment. Staring at the hazily swirling storm shield, at the bluish sky beyond it and the drab surrounding landscape, he ate the cold food.

  “The storm’s almost passed,” said Jaklin, content it seemed to hold her cleaning cloth and let the other women carry on alone for the moment. “We should be breathing fresh air soon.”

  Obi-Wan glanced at her. “You’ve spoken to Teeba Sufi?”

  “Yes. I know the dangers,” Jaklin said, curt. “We’ll ride them, Teeb Kenobi. That’s what life in Torbel is. Problem after problem and us riding them. Trying not to fall off and be trampled underfoot.”

  Her pain was a bloodred surge in the Force. “I wish there were something I could do about that, Jaklin.”

  She turned on him, fiercely. “Torbel’s not yours to fix. Torbel’s ours and we’ll take care of it. You do what you came here to do, you and that young man. They’re making us murderers and I won’t have it. D’you hear?”

  He couldn’t eat any more. Putting his half-emptied plate on a nearby trestle, he nodded. “I hear, Teeba. Anakin and I will do our best.” He looked around. “Am I needed here? If not, I’ll see if there’s anything more to be done in the power plant.”

  “If Devi has no need of you,” said Jaklin, “I know we’ve men trying to get the artesian pump back working. That power surge did some fearful damage.”

  He stared. “The village is without water?”

  “There’s water in the holding tanks,” she said. “Enough to last till the pump’s fixed.” Then she sighed. “It’ll likely need parts. That’ll mean sending to the city and spending money we can’t spare. And with this damotite shipment short…” Shoulders slumping, Jaklin turned away. “I should be telling Rikkard to stop mining. How can we send them our damotite when—” A shuddering breath. “But that damotite means food in our children’s bellies.”

  There were no simple answers. Nothing about this was fair, or easy. “Send them your damotite, Jaklin,” he said. “Whatever they take this time will never be used to harm anyone.”

  She turned back to him, her eyes terrible. “You can promise me that, Jedi?”

  “I can,” he said, so confident, and had no idea if it was the truth or not. The Force couldn’t—or wouldn’t—tell him. But she needed to believe it. “You know where I’ll be, and Anakin’s helping at the refinery. If you need either one of us, don’t hesitate. Thank you for breakfast.”

  Leaving Jaklin to finish her tasks, Obi-Wan made his way to the power plant. Devi’s face lit up, seeing him.

  “You!” she said, crossing the monitor station to meet him halfway. “A Jedi, Teeb Obi-Wan?”

  She was smiling, and teasing, but beneath that she was in pain. The servomotors of her antigrav harness were grinding more harshly than ever after her overnight exertions.

  “I came to see if you needed my assistance,” he said. “Though it does seem as though you have everything under control.”

  “I do, thanks to Anakin,” she said. “I’ve never seen anyone work with machinery the way he does. No offense intended. You were a great help, too, last night. Only—”

  “Believe me, there’s no need to apologize or explain,” he said quickly. “Compared with my young friend I’m little more than a rank amateur. Tell me, Devi—how close are you to lowering the storm shield?”

  Devi glanced at the bank of monitors she’d been checking. “Theta levels are near to safe now. Won’t be too long. Doesn’t do to be overeager, you know. After everything we’ve survived, Obi-Wan, I’d hate to see us taken down by a last few stubborn particles of theta radiation.”

  And so would he. “Then while we wait, might I take a closer look at your harness? I might not be Anakin, but there should be something I can do to make it work more efficiently.”

  Devi hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. Thank you. I do my best with it but—” She shrugged. “The only manual I’ve got is years out of date. There’s a toolbox under that bank of monitors there.”

  He fetched the toolbox, then eased her out of the awkward and misaligned contraption, helping her to sit on the floor. But instead of turning his attention to the equipment he took her hand in his and cradled his other hand to the back of her head.

  “What are you doing?” she said, startled.

  Sufi’s foul concoction had eased his headache considerably. He could feel the Force more clearly, sense where Devi was hurting and how he could help.

  “I’d like to make you a little more comfortable,” he said. “Do I have your permission?”

  “I—well—yes, I suppose so,” she said, then laughed, sounding nervous. “How did you—how could you—”

  “Jedi feel things.”

  “Like other people’s pain? Oh. I didn’t know that.”

  He tightened his fingers around hers. “There’s no need to be afraid. I’ve been healed a few times myself. It’s quite a simple thing, really.”

  “Maybe for you,” said Devi. “I know you helped Bohle and Arrad. I’d be grateful if you could help me. Sometimes—” Her breath caught. “I don’t like to complain. It doesn’t change anything. Only sometimes—”

  “I know,” he said gently. “Sometimes it feels as though you’ll never feel anything else. As though the rest of your life will feel like this.”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I can’t afford medicine from Lantibba. Sufi does what she can with her herbs but—” She smeared a hand across her eyes. “I don’t suppose—is there any chance you could—”

  Regret cut keenly, like a blade. “I’m so sorry, Devi. I’m not a dedicated healer. Besides, the original injury happened some time ago, didn’t it? Even if I were trained, I’m not certain it could be fixed.”

  She closed her eyes. “I see.”

  “But I will make you more comfortable,” he promised. “Now. Breathe slowly and deeply for me. Yes. That’s it.”

  It was a relief to help her, to sink himself into the Force and use it in such a good cause. Knowing that countless innocents would suffer and die if he and Anakin failed to stop Lok Durd and Count Dooku, this one small act, this brief, transitory kindness, took on a grave and greatly personal significance. In healing Greti’s mother and Rikkard’s son, in easing this courageous woman’s pain, he was making a difference. Anything he could do to leave these people better than he found them was a balm to his weary, fretful mind.

  When he was finished, and Devi’s pain was near to banished, he left her to stir awake and turned his attention to the antigrav harness. It was indeed a sorry piece of equipment, broken and mended and tricked up and falling apart. He’d do what he could, but doubtless Anakin could do better. He’d ask him to look at it before they returned to the city.

  Feeling eyes on him, he glanced up. Devi was smiling.

  “I don’t hurt,” she said, wondering. “I can’t remember the last time that something, somewhere, didn’t hurt. Obi-Wan—”

  “You’re very welcome,” he said. “Now, let’s see if I can make a difference to this harness, shall we?”

  His repair job wasn’t perfect, not by a long shot, but there was a definite improvement. Once he’d finished, and helped Devi strap herself back into it, she threw her arms around him and held on tight.

  “Thank you. I don’t know why you’re on Lanteeb and I don’t care. I don’t care what anyone has to say about the Jedi. Thank you.” And then she let go and practically danced to the monitors. After checking the theta-level readout she pumped her fist in the air. “Yes! We can lower the shield.” Grinning, she turned to him. “Would you like to do the honors?” She pointed. “It’s that panel there. The red toggles to lower the shield, and the green switch to sound the all-clear.”

  And so, with great solemnity, he deactivated the storm shield that had kept them alive through the long, wild night.

  “Come on,” said Devi, heading for the door. “Let’s go breathe some fresh air, shall we?”

  The all-clear s
iren sounded through the village, a lighter, more cheerful wailing than the strident blaring of danger. Emerging into the unfiltered sunshine, Obi-Wan saw that he and Devi weren’t the only people rushing outside to celebrate. Everyone aboveground that he could see had downed tools, was hugging and laughing as the trapped smoke from the burned refinery began to dissipate, shredded by a lively breeze. He felt a familiar shiver in the Force. Yes. There was Anakin, over at the ruined building, his height and his light hair making him stand out in the crowd. Anakin, sensing him in turn, raised a hand above his head and waved. He waved back, an unexpected rush of optimism lifting his dull, beleaguered spirits.

  Perhaps we can win this one after all.

  And then somebody shouted. “Look! Droids!”

  Freezing apprehension swamped him. By his side, Devi shifted around, staring. “What’s Teiki on about? Is the convoy here early? Rikkard’s going to explode.”

  Obi-Wan saw sunlight on durasteel, wickedly glinting, heard a faint thud thud thud of heavy metal feet on hard, dry ground. Then came a high, buzzing drone, a familiar metallic whining—and a swarm of mosquito droids flowed over a rise and began to spit blaster bolts at the unprotected village.

  A villager screamed and fell and abruptly stopped screaming.

  Obi-Wan spun around, sending a frantic mental call to Anakin.

  They’ve found us. Get everyone inside!

  Without waiting for an answer he sprinted to the power plant. Reaching it, he threw himself inside, leapt for the storm-shield monitor, and slammed the switches on again. He had no idea how long it took for the generators to engage, if the shield could repel blaster bolts, or how long it would hold out against a concerted attack. The only thing he did know was that the shield might be their only hope.

  They were waiting for us. It was always too late.

  “Obi-Wan! Obi-Wan? What’s going on, what are you—”

  He turned. “It’s not the convoy, Devi. Stay in here. Do not go outside. Divert all the power you can to the shields and contact Rikkard in the mine. Tell him to keep everyone underground. Right now it’s the safest place to be.”