A Certain Point of View

Chapter 20: Only What You Take With You

Obi-Wan...there is good in him...I know...there is still...

In the darkness of the Falcon's smuggling compartments, he had nearly slipped away. All the strength had faded from his limbs. The drought-blasted heart, the scorched arteries ruined by the patient desert, screamed out for rest. The hungry sands, ten billion years old, still waited for him to die. He had brought the boy as far as he dared—as far, perhaps, as the Force needed him to. He had returned to his place of bliss. He had made his peace, or tried to. He had resigned himself to the end.

And yet, Ben Kenobi did not die.

His face burned, still shining red from where the heat of the lava had scorched it even from six feet away. He watched her with cold horror as she lay on the medical platform as if already dead, weaker of body—and worse, spirit—than he had ever seen her. There was a coldness in her, a hollowness that defied all reason. The Polis Massa asteroid field held the most sophisticated medical droids in the Outer Rim; yet they were baffled by the sickness in her that went deeper than blood and bone.

"She's dying?" Obi-Wan asked, incredulous.

"For reasons we cannot explain, she has lost the will to live," said one of the droids. It struck Obi-Wan then, and Ben now, as the most supremely stupid thing ever said in the history of the galaxy. He wanted to tear the medical droid's head from its body. But Master Yoda was there, watching him, and he was careful not to want it too deeply.

Obi-Wan had felt the full blast of Dooku's Force lightning, and it was no mere jolt or sudden shock. He had been thrown against electrical barriers on his adventures, and stunned by high-voltage wires, and tormented by shock probes. From the outside, Force lightning looked like that. But within him, it had torn an invisible chasm; it was a direct attack to the soul, a maiming so profound that the blazing electrical discharge was nearly an afterthought to its power. Even a moment's exposure left a darkness in you that took a long time to appear, much less to heal.

He felt that darkness festering in her now. Her delicate, birdlike throat had been nearly crushed by Vader's grip—but the Sith Lord had crushed deeper and truer things than that. She was overwhelmed by his darkness, a darkness that had poured out of him and straight into her innermost heart. She fought not to purge it from her, but to contain it—to keep it, perhaps, from poisoning Anakin's child.

This was a sickness beyond medicine. It was killing her, and he was watching it. As he watched it through the ages, a terrible anger stirred in him. And he did not die.

Rise, said the Dark Side. Ben rose.

Can you feel him?

Ben could feel him.

He is searching for you.

Let him find me. Let him come.

Feel the power of his hatred. He is still strong, very strong.

Yes. Will you make me strong?

I will make you stronger.

He's too powerful. He was the Chosen One. His blood was so strong.

He has wasted his potential. He is a machine, severed from life. You are wise, whole, perfected. You could be a greater warrior than Vader. Greater than Sidious, even.

This—this is what ancient Dooku must have felt in the bloodthirsty grip of Makashi. The pain evaporated from his joints. A terrible strength came flooding back to them.

The Imperials are weak. It has been nineteen years since they faced a Jedi. And now they are trapped on this metal moon with you.

I could kill them all.