Kenobi

by John Jackson Miller

  “No!” Orrin could feel his heart thumping. “Listen to me, all of you!” He stepped over to his landspeeder, putting his boot on the hood just as he’d done in his victory celebration, days earlier. It was the same pose, the same crowd—but so different now. “Everyone, the Call worked. Annie just didn’t have her activator at hand. As soon as the alarm sounded, they all took off like scared womp rats.” He raised his voice. “All of ’em—even Plug-eye!”

  Plug-eye? The dissonant conversations in the crowd suddenly became one. “Plug-eye was here?” asked a farmer.

  “Yes—and they all headed that way,” Orrin said, pointing toward the south. “We got a report from a skyhopper. They’re headed toward Hanter’s Gorge!”

  The buzz became silence. Then the party erupted into shouts. Someone said it: “We go now, we can get them all!”

  Orrin looked around, uncertain, as the clamor rose. Of course, the mob was right, the prospect obvious. Plug-eye had brought out more warriors than had been seen in recent memory. Now they were fleeing toward Hanter’s Gorge, a well-mapped part of the Jundland Wastes that sat close to the nearest entrance to the Roiya Rift, the rocky labyrinth where the Tuskens liked to hide. Plug-eye might think they were heading for safety—but in fact, they were moving into a trap. This could be a chance for the Settlers’ Call posse to eliminate the Sand People and finish off the threat once and for all.

  Orrin glanced at the departing Devaronians and then down at Ulbreck. The old man had lost his audience, but he’d be talking again soon. Orrin had to preempt that.

  He looked up at the suns. Seeing lots of daylight left, Orrin made a decision. No, he couldn’t let this go unanswered. The Tuskens had struck the heart of the operation, knowingly or not. The locals paid their hard-earned credits to the Settlers’ Call Fund. If the Call couldn’t protect its own headquarters, it wasn’t much good, was it?

  He shot a direct look at Mullen. “All right! This is it. Muster drivers to the left, gunners to the right.” He smiled darkly and fired his blaster into the air. “We’re going hunting!”

  “This is disgusting,” Leelee said, poking a Tusken corpse with a broom handle. Her crimson nose crinkled. “I don’t think I’m eating here again.”

  “Thanks for your support,” Annileen said, pulling at a canvas tarp. A dead Tusken warrior lay facedown on it, the body jostling as she dragged it toward the eastern door of the Claim. She didn’t know what Sand People ate, but this one weighed plenty.

  Plug-eye’s party had barely been gone when Annileen had set to work calculating how to repair her store. It couldn’t wait. Too many people had seen the mess in the Claim, and had reacted just as Leelee had. There wasn’t any thought of opening again today; the Tuskens had ruined a profitable evening, along with her property. But if there was any hope for the future, the cleanup couldn’t wait.

  Kallie, her riding kerchief pulled up over her mouth, reentered and pitched a pair of gloves to Leelee. “Ready for another one,” the girl said. “Should we start piling them in the dewback pen?”

  “Can’t,” Annileen said. “They stink too much. The dewbacks will never sleep there again.” She turned to her daughter. “Tie a hoverpallet to the back of the LiteVan. We’ll haul it into The Rumbles as soon as Orrin gives us the all-clear.”

  “The Rumbles? We’ll have corpses rolling off all over the place.”

  “I really don’t care.” Annileen glared at the black smear on the floor where the Tusken had been. Let a sarlacc have what was left.

  A total violation of everything she held dear—and on this day, too! Annileen had stepped outside only once, just long enough to see what had happened to Old Number One. It was one of Dannar’s last daily presences in her world, and she could tell from twenty meters away that it was damaged beyond repair.

  At least her family was fine, although she could think of better ways of sobering Jabe up than a Tusken attack. All her worries from before felt like a relief now. Disciplining her son—what was wrong with him?—should be a cinch, after all this.

  Ben appeared in the doorway from the garage. “Dr. Mell has left with Bohmer,” he said, wiping his hands on a rag. “He’ll survive.”

  “It’s a miracle,” Annileen said, brightening. “I don’t know what you did, Ben, but I’m glad you were here today.”

  Leelee looked up from her mopping. She pointed at Ben, and then at Annileen. “You. And you. You were here together today?”

  “All day,” Kallie whispered to Leelee, loudly enough so Annileen could hear. “Alone.” Leelee looked back at Annileen and raised an eyebrow.

  “There were also some Tuskens,” Ben said. “I’d better go.” He put the hood back over his head and walked swiftly past the Zeltron woman. Leelee smirked as he passed.

  Annileen gave an exhausted sigh and nodded. She started toward the stack of water containers, leaning but intact. “You should probably get that water you paid for.” She pulled off her gloves and started to walk toward him, but he was already opening the door.

  “Wa-hooo!” came a call from outside.

  Ben paused in the doorway as one landspeeder after another drove past, full of cheering passengers. Annileen trudged toward the door, wearily. If those are fans back from the race, she thought, they’re going to be disappointed.

  But when she joined Ben outside, she saw the garages had emptied of Settlers’ Fund vehicles—all of which were now streaming to the south, crammed with hollering, blaster-wielding settlers, young and old. Mostly young. And Orrin’s USV-5 was far in the lead, carrying several.

  “Oh, dear,” Ben said. “You don’t think—”

  “I do think,” Annileen said, swearing. She ran back toward the garages, calling for her son.

  She found only Zedd, seated and massaging his injured rib cage in a medicated stupor. It took two tries to get him to answer. “They’ve gone after Plug-eye,” he finally said, wincing. “Hanter’s Gorge.”

  “Jabe! Did they take Jabe?”

  “He was the first to go,” the farmhand said, grinning through broken teeth. “I hope he fries a few for me.”

  Furious, Annileen dashed past the injured man into the garage. Twenty seconds later she emerged astride an old speeder bike—one of Gloamer’s less-used rentals. Gunning it around the corner of the store, she saw Ben walking toward his eopie.

  “Jabe’s gone with them,” she said, hovering. “They’re headed for Hanter’s Gorge.”

  Ben looked at her with concern. “I don’t know the place. How bad is it?”

  “Bad enough. There’s no way out of there,” she said. “The Tuskens will have no choice but to fight!”

  Ben’s eyes narrowed. “He’s with Orrin—but that didn’t mean much earlier.”

  “I know.” Annileen gripped the throttle. “He’s sixteen, Ben—and he was drinking. I don’t know what shape he’s in right now.”

  “I’m worried about the shape you’re in. You’re exhausted.” He stepped toward her and took hold of one of the handlebars. Even with the bike in pause mode, her hands were shaking. But her eyes blazed with determination and anger.

  “This is the day I lost Dannar, and I nearly lost his store today. I’m not losing his son today, too!”

  “I’ll go instead,” Ben said, after a moment. “I’ll look after the boy.”

  “Look after us both, or neither of us,” she said, twisting the throttle and scooting forward on the seat. “Because I’m going!”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ANNILEEN’S PULSE HADN’T SLOWED at all as the kilometers sped past, but it felt better to have Ben with her. She felt his arms grip around her stomach as the speeder bike banked. She had chosen to drive; she knew where they were going, and Ben had seemed willing to let her take the lead.

  The afternoon suns beat down on her forehead. She’d left without head wear. What had she said to Ben about the suns and aging? Try having kids, she thought.

  Jabe! What was wrong with that kid? So he hated working in the store. She’d been bor
ed, too, at his age but she had to work, and so did he. She could understand his hanging around with the Gaults to let off steam. But the boy was slight—no scrapper like Zedd, no beady-eyed gunslinger like Mullen. Bounty hunting was not in his future. Why risk his neck hunting Tuskens?

  She already knew the answer. The Tuskens had killed his father. Today was an anniversary for Jabe, as well.

  She just hoped she could reach him in time.

  * * *

  A’Yark screamed in agony.

  The warrior had never run so hard for so long. Sand People knew how to run; the cowardly sun had taught them that much. But there was a reason Tuskens seldom strayed far from their camps and banthas. The gaderffii was a fine weapon to hold for a sprint, but after a distance it became cumbersome, and even the nimblest runner risked a bashed kneecap. A’Yark had slammed both in this chase, further aggravating leg muscles that were already on fire.

  And without their banthas to guide them, green warriors were likely to lose their way. The group ahead had. The foolishness was theirs, but the failure belonged to A’Yark, who’d calculated for a successful raid and an orderly withdrawal. Unless A’Yark turned the fleeing warriors around, all would perish.

  A’Deen had the speed of youth. The newest warrior of the clan had dashed ahead, carrying A’Yark’s warning. The Tuskens had passed through the box canyon known as the False Mouth, thinking it led into The Pillars. A path did exist that led up and out, but only A’Yark knew where it was.

  A silver landspeeder screeched past. The vehicle of the Smiling One.

  I should’ve killed you when I had the chance, A’Yark thought.

  A’Yark dived behind a dark formation on the craggy hillside and watched. More machines followed. Some bore toward the False Mouth. But others parted from the company and headed up the navigable inclines east and west of the gap. A flying machine with angular wings hovered above, just out of rifle range.

  So many settlers. So many vehicles. The Smiling Man’s forces had thwarted A’Yark’s band in the past, killing some and driving the rest away. But this was different. A’Yark had struck at the human in his lair and failed. No quarter would be given.

  A’Yark saw the flier pass between the suns. The elder sun had failed to kill, too; his sentence was a lifetime of running. A’Yark could flee now, and live. But not the rest.

  And A’Yark had sent A’Deen to join them. The last surviving son. The end of the line.

  Many lines are ending. A’Yark cursed the pain and dashed up the hill.

  * * *

  “You got ’em! You got ’em!”

  Orrin’s face beamed as he clicked off the comlink. The skyhopper had led them well, its operator calling down the locations of the Tuskens below. Further confirmation came from the Tuskens’ futile blasterfire into the air, useless attempts to bring the three-winged vessel down.

  A volcanic coulee in the foothills of the Jundland Wastes, Hanter’s Gorge twisted from its wide opening back around two corners. There, it branched off into a dozen steep staircases, most too tall even for a Wookiee to scale. But the eastern and western walls of the canyon were level on top—and the settlers had something the Tuskens didn’t: eyes in the air. The Tuskens had walked into a death chamber.

  “Hang back from the edge,” Orrin ordered the settlers parked nearby. There was no sense drawing fire. “Wait until they try to climb out. Then take ’em.”

  It was already happening. Atop an escarpment jutting into the gorge, another group of settlers was already firing downward, picking off Tuskens like insects on a wall. Orange blasts peppered the cliff face around the nomads. One after another, they howled and fell. More settlers—he recognized Jabe and Veeka among them—fired on those who hit the ground.

  Cheers went up to Orrin’s left as the scene repeated farther up the canyon. Orrin had been reluctant to make a sortie so soon after the oasis attack, but he realized now it was the thing to do. The people needed it. The locals wouldn’t feel the same about the Claim or the Settlers’ Call without something to cauterize the wound. The attack deserved an answer.

  No, this had to happen. And as he casually walked toward the edge, rifle raised, he was surprised how good it felt. He wasn’t alone; he saw the same buoyant spirit in the faces of those around him. Several he recognized as neighbors from the east who’d gone to bury the bodies of Cliegg Lars’s posse, years earlier. He couldn’t imagine what they’d seen that day. Few had ever talked about it since. Some had wanted to retaliate then, but they understood that going on a hunt so far from territory they knew was a recipe for disaster.

  Orrin thought it did something to a person to walk away from a scene like that. You could hide and tell yourself you were doing the right thing, but any blood a human had would turn to dust. Or acid. For them, this moment was more than right.

  It was necessary.

  He crouched as he reached the edge. Such caution wasn’t necessary. No return fire came from the floor of the gorge. Dozens of rag-wrapped warriors ran this way and that, some abandoning their gaffi sticks and guns as they sought pathways out of the death zone.

  What a dumb bunch, Orrin thought. He’d been afraid they’d gotten smarter when they attacked the oasis. An improbable concept, to be sure; couldn’t be much intelligence attached to bandaging one’s head and living in the desert. But Dannar’s Claim was the center of defense for all the lands surrounding the Pika Oasis, and hadn’t they attacked the tower with the siren? Watching the savages scuffle to survive now, he decided it was random chance. Plug-eye might have some sense, but the rest of the Tuskens were of low quality.

  Orrin knelt and set to work lowering their quantity. A slight-looking raider was high on the far rise, scrambling up a rocky incline toward a gap. Orrin sighted the bandit and fired. The shot struck the Tusken in the center of his back, throwing him across the other side of the crest and out of sight.

  “Was that Pluggy?” his neighbor asked.

  “Too tall. But we’ll sort ’em out later,” Orrin said. He clucked. “They’re wearing their death-shrouds, folks. Put them in the ground!”

  Annileen gasped.

  From the western side of the gorge, she and Ben had ridden up a spiraling, pebbled approach to a notch in the hillside. Creeping up the shattered rock incline, she’d heard the shots echoing all throughout the canyon. Now, lying on her stomach, she saw everything.

  “They’re … they’re being massacred.”

  Ben, a few meters behind her, said nothing.

  “The Tuskens, I mean,” Annileen said, looking back over her shoulder at him. “They’re being massacred.”

  “I know,” Ben said. He was kneeling, his eyes closed. He seemed to have a headache. From the suns or the sounds, or the whole day? Annileen didn’t know. He seemed to have gone to that dark place again—the place that his trips to the Claim had helped him escape. But she could feel a headache coming herself—especially when she spied Jabe, happily blasting away in the shooting gallery alongside his friends.

  She shook her head. There was no reaching Jabe’s location from here, but he wasn’t in any danger, and neither were she and Ben. She stood, intending to try to yell to her son. But muscles that had been tensed since the Tuskens arrived at the Claim suddenly became jelly. Feeling the wind leaving her, she fell to her knees, eyes still focused on Jabe.

  Ben joined her at the lookout point. Kneeling beside her, he spoke, his tones low and measured. “How does this make you feel? Given what the Tuskens did to Dannar. And to your store.”

  “Bad.” Annileen closed her eyes, not realizing why she’d answered that way. And then she said it again. “Bad.”

  Ben lowered his head. For a moment, she thought she heard him say, “Good.”

  A’Yark leapt, cape blousing as boots hit the ground. Up from the gully, another warrior cowered beneath an overhang. Seeing A’Yark, the terrified warrior crept out, quivering.

  Not my son. A’Yark simply pointed to the short rise, behind. Another coward, another lost f
ool who didn’t deserve saving. But there’d be time for recriminations later.

  A blaster shot struck the nearby rock face. Throbbing feet again went into motion. A’Yark knew the gorge, and its places to hide. A’Deen would be somewhere. A’Deen, who had listened, and not fled. Listened, and gone to find the others.

  A’Yark heard more Tusken voices over the rise. There was still a chance.

  “That’s a speedy one,” Mullen said, watching his father shoot.

  “Yep.” Orrin couldn’t keep a bead on the Tusken, but it hardly mattered. One Sand Person would hop out of his rifle sights, and another would dart back in, begging to be scorched.

  Blaster bolts everywhere, all heading in one direction. This was one of the great battles, Orrin thought.

  Centuries earlier, Alkhara, a researcher-turned-bandit, had turned on his Tusken allies in the Great Mesra Plateau, wiping them all out. Scores of Tuskens had been slain more than a decade earlier, caught up in a battle between Hutts. No one counted bodies those times; of the former, only the legend existed. Orrin was a farmer, not a general, but he had a feeling the Comet Run Day Battle would be high on the list of Tusken takedowns of all time.

  It was dizzying. Lowering his rifle, his eyes went from one corpse to another to another. So many it began to give him pause. “Too much,” he said to his son, under his breath.

  A fellow farmer overheard him and laughed. “What, are you boys afraid we’ll put the Settlers’ Call out of business?”

  Mullen shot his father an anxious look.

  “No,” Orrin said, raising his voice. “There’ll always be Sandies behind every rock in the Wastes.”

  He went back to his crouch and scanned the nooks in the opposing rock face. Tracing a tumble-down upward, he saw movement. His finger brushed the trigger for half an instant before his mind registered what he’d seen.

  “Annie?”

  Mullen stepped up beside him as Orrin stood and pointed. They passed Mullen’s macrobinoculars back and forth. It was Annileen, all right, Orrin saw.