A Certain Point of View

Chapter 9: Help Me

The terrible truth struck him as they crossed a stretch of desert that had no name. Artoo chirped and whirred excitedly nearly all the way home, much to the annoyance of his one-armed counterpart. Raised in the core, Ben had once had a good ear for Binary, as far as humans went. After twenty years, though, even basic concepts were difficult for him, and he could piece together the context of their mission only from the protocol droid's frustrated protests.

"This joint will never be the same, you know."

Curious beep, said the astromech.

"It's no use; the coupling's bent. My left arm will pull off like some modular attachment for the rest of my days. Oh, this is all your fault!"

Disgusted whirr.

"If it weren't for this 'mission' of yours, we'd be safe in our new home."

Interrogative whistle, directly addressed.

"I don't have a sense of adventure. I have a primary function. And every faulty directive you follow makes it harder to perform."

Beeps—too rapid-fire to follow.

"And I was the protocol droid to a captain. And very close, mind you, to being assigned to a princess on a diplomatic matter of surpassing importance. Thanks to your meddling, I'm to become an overgrown interface module for farming equipment."

Ben's heart dropped in his chest at the mention of the princess as the little astromech whistled on. There could be no doubt, now.

"That is not for us to decide, Artoo. We only follow our programs."

More beeps—system beeps. Something about Artoo's primary function.

"Yes, well, I'm going to regret it. And so will you, if you're not careful."

Dismissive buzz.

"Just you wait."

The protocol droid—surely the one assigned to Padmé all those years—was as talkative as ever, even missing its arm. With a growing sense of dread, Ben took in all he could from them. He knew, by the time they had reached the hut, just who was aboard the vessel, and what had likely become of her. He knew, too, more clearly than ever, into whose hands she had fallen. There was no question; he was going after them.

I told you, said the Dark Side. I told you that you would endanger the boy. You cannot escape your destiny. He will suffer if you bring him with you. He will suffer if you leave him behind. But then, you've always wanted him to suffer—

"Enough," Ben said so sharply that the others heard it. Luke looked over, concerned.

Perhaps the suffering of Anakin's child is part of your revenge, after all.

"Turn here," said Ben. "We'll hide the speeder around back. You can't be too careful with the scavengers in these parts."

He faltered climbing down from the speeder. For just a moment, so briefly that it could have been the blazing sun, the strength left his arms and he used the Force to catch himself. There was no question; the boy would have to come. But how to turn his mind, now, after discouraging it for so long?

Tell him everything—no—almost everything.

Blame his uncle.

Give him the saber—Anakin's saber. Yes. Tell him that his father meant for him to have it. That following in his father's footsteps was his destiny.

But what if he did? If he followed too long in Anakin's foosteps—would Obi-Wan Kenobi fail again?

If Vader—Vader!—turned him to the Dark Side—how many more innocents would Obi-Wan's hubris destroy?