Not much had changed, except within Obi-Wan, who felt as if he
had downed three bottles of Whyren’s Reserve. Bleary-eyed but lucid,
tipsy but sure-footed, weary but attentive, Obi-Wan seemed to be
the sum of all contrasts.
More or less rooted in place, he swayed, wobbled, tottered, and
reeled, evading or parrying an almost unremitting current of blaster
bolts. His singed and burned cloak bore evidence of all the near hits,
but the floor—heaped with droids, whole and in parts, bodies sparking
and limbs twitching—spoke to the accuracy of his deflections.
He felt at times as if he were merely holding the lightsaber and
letting it do all the work. In one hand, in both, it made no difference.
Other times he was able to anticipate the bolts, twist himself aside at
the last instant, and allow the walls and floor to handle the ricochets.
Sometimes he actually took a moment to congratulate himself on
the skill of his returns.
He was in the Force, to be sure, but deep in some other zone as
well, giddy with astonishment, as the world unfolded in slow motion.
Alerted by the commandos that the air was saturated with spores,
Anakin had his rebreather in his mouth as he approached the room in
which Obi-Wan had held his own against better than fifty droids, all
of which lay scattered about the room. A weaving, shuffling, staggering
Obi-Wan was dealing with the last of them when Anakin entered.
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When the final droid collapsed, Obi-Wan aimed the blade of
his lightsaber casually toward the floor and stood swaying in place,
breathing hard but almost grinning.
“Anakin,” he said happily. “How are you?”