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Rebel Force #2

Hostage

by Alex Wheeler

CHAPTER ONE

Day never came to the swamp. The dank air, thick with swirling fumes, shrouded the land in eternal fog. The distant sun emitted only a dim glow, turning the sky a sallow green that matched his skin. Until, all too soon, night fell once again.

He, who had devoted his life to the light, now lived in darkness. It seemed the universe liked a good joke.

And so he laughed.

"Too dark to see my breakfast, it is," he chortled, stirring some rootleaf and gnarltree bark into the bowl of butcherbug stew. He wrinkled his nose at the foul stench. "Perhaps lucky, I am, hmm."

He spoke to himself often here. Another joke: That he, who had taken such joy in others, was alone. Alone in an empty swamp; alone on an empty planet.

Alone, yet not alone: He still had the Force.

It was a Padawan's first lesson: Learn to trust your senses—and learn to reach beyond them. He did not need light to see.

Nor did he need to see the faces of his allies to know they were there.

"Waiting for you, I have been," he said softly, hunched over the makeshift stove. His stew bubbled over the flame. Another Padawan lesson: When the time comes to eat, eat.

Food runs out. So does time.

His modest hut had been empty for a long time. For many years, his shuffling footsteps had been the only ones to cross the threshold; his halting wheeze had been the only breath to mist across the still air.

He was alone still—and yet, not alone.

"I have failed, Master," the voice said.

He shook his head. "Failed, we all have," he said. "Succeed, we all may.

Undetermined, the future is." He had seen the future in his dreams. Cloudy visions of blood and fire, terror mixed with hope, death with awakening.

"I have much to tell you," the voice said urgently.

He rummaged through a pile of junk, pulling out a misshapen spoon. He had crafted it himself from a fallen gnarltree branch. "Patience, Obi-Wan," he said, finally turning to face the spirit of the fallen Jedi. "Talk, we will, hmm, yes. But first, eat, I must."

As Obi-Wan Kenobi's shimmering figure looked on, casting a soft glow of light around the dark cave, the great Jedi Master Yoda shuffled over to a narrow wooden table. He lowered his frail, stooped body onto a wobbly stool.

And he ate his breakfast.

"He's powerful, Master Yoda," Obi-Wan said. "I can sense it within him. Young, but—"

"Young, yes." Yoda nodded. "And old, too. Yes, yes. Too old?" Never had a Jedi begun his training as an adult. Brought to the Jedi Temple as infants, they grew up knowing nothing but the Jedi way. In Yoda's long memory, only one exception had been made on this front. One Padawan so promising that it seemed foolish not to train him, though he was already nine years old, with memories of a different world and attachments to a different life.

The Jedi Council had allowed the training to proceed, though they'd had their doubts.

Rather than trusting his judgment, Yoda had put his trust in Qui-Gon Jinn—and Anakin Skywalker.

Yes, they had all failed, one way or another.

"He's impatient," Obi-Wan admitted. His face was webbed by deep creases, his eyes underlined with dark hollows. Death had not relieved him of the burdens he carried. "And stubborn."

"Remind me, that does, of another young Jedi."

Obi-Wan frowned. "No. The boy is nothing like his father."

"Not Anakin," Yoda said mildly. "You." He smiled, remembering the brash young man who, from the start, had wielded his lightsaber like it was a part of him.

"The boy must be trained, but he is impulsive," Obi-Wan said. "Courageous, bright, loyal, yes—and yet, quick to anger, impatient. Perhaps too willing to choose the easy path."

"Human, he is," Yoda pointed out. "Flawed, all living beings are."

"He has greatness in him," Obi-Wan said. "Of that I am sure. But as to what form the greatness will take…" He hung his head. "I was sure about Anakin, too. Once."

"Responsibility, we must all take," Yoda said firmly. "You, for your choice. Me, for mine. Anakin—only Anakin—for his."

Obi-Wan paused, the guilt plain