Star Wars_ The Dark Lord Trilogy - James Luceno [230]
They looked like they might, just possibly, be waiting for him.
Obi-Wan nodded to himself.
“You’d best find your way home, girl,” he said, patting Boga’s scaled neck. “One way or another, I doubt I’ll have further need of your assistance.”
Boga gave a soft, almost regretful honk of acknowledgment, then bent a sharper curve into her long flexible neck to place her beak gently against Obi-Wan’s chest.
“It’s all right, Boga. I thank you for your help, but to stay here will be dangerous. This area is about to become a free-fire zone. Please. Go home.”
The dragonmount honked again and moved back, and Obi-Wan stepped from the sun into the shadow.
A wave-front of cool passed over him with the shade’s embrace. He walked without haste, without urgency. The Force layered connections upon connections, and brought them all to life within him: the chill deck plates beneath his boots, and the stone beneath those, and far below that the smooth lightless currents of the world-ocean. He became the turbulent swirl of wind whistling through the towering vaulted hall; he became the sunlight outside and the shadow within. His human heart in its cage of bone echoed the beat of an alien one in a casket of armorplast, and his mind whirred with the electronic signal cascades that passed for thought in Jedi-killer droids.
And when the Force layered into his consciousness the awareness of the structure of the great hall itself, he became aware, without surprise and without distress, that the entire expanse of vaulted ceiling above his head was actually a storage hive.
Filled with combat droids.
Which made him also aware, again without surprise and without distress, that he would very likely die here.
Contemplation of death brought only one slight sting of regret, and more than a bit of puzzlement. Until this very moment, he had never realized he’d always expected, for no discernible reason—
That when he died, Anakin would be with him.
How curious, he thought, and then he turned his mind to business.
Anakin had a feeling Master Windu was going to be disappointed.
Palpatine had hardly reacted at all.
The Supreme Chancellor of the Republic sat at the small desk in his private office, staring distractedly at an abstract twist of neuranium that Anakin had always assumed was supposed to be some kind of sculpture, and merely sighed, as though he had matters of much greater importance on his mind.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Anakin said, shifting his weight in front of Palpatine’s desk. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me. Obi-Wan has made contact with General Grievous. His attack is already under way—they’re fighting right now, sir!”
“Yes, yes, of course, Anakin. Yes, quite.” Palpatine still looked as if he was barely paying attention. “I entirely understand your concern for your friend. Let us hope he is up to the task.”
“It’s not just concern for Obi-Wan, sir; taking General Grievous will be the final victory for the Republic—!”
“Will it?” He turned to Anakin, and a distinctly troubled frown chased the distraction from his face. “I’m afraid, my boy, that our situation is a great deal more grave than even I had feared. Perhaps you should sit down.”
Anakin didn’t move. “What do you mean?”
“Grievous is no longer the real enemy. Even the Clone Wars themselves are now only … a distraction.”
“What?”
“The Council is about to make its move,” Palpatine said, grim and certain. “If we don’t stop them, by this time tomorrow the Jedi may very well have taken over the Republic.”
Anakin burst into astonished laughter. “But sir—please, you can’t possibly believe that—”
“Anakin, I know. I will be the first to be arrested—the first to be executed—but I will be far from the last.”
Anakin could only shake his head in disbelief. “Sir, I know that the Council and you have … disagreements, but—”
“This is far beyond any personal dispute between me and the members of the Council.