Kenobi

by John Jackson Miller

  She withdrew her hand and stepped back. Orrin turned his head and saw Ben, lingering in the next aisle. “Oh. Kenobi,” he said, drily. “Were you ready to talk business about the Fund?”

  Ben shrugged. “I’m sorry. I may have been wasting your time—”

  Orrin looked back, coolly. “No law against it.” He looked over at the mess on the floor. “You know, Ben, stuff keeps happening when you’re here. I hate that we keep inconveniencing you.”

  “Yes, I should be about my business,” Ben said mildly. He bowed and turned away.

  Orrin walked back toward his office, the exultant customers following. Annileen goggled. Did Orrin just tell one of my friends to leave?

  Suddenly indignant, she stomped after Orrin, intending to ask exactly that. If it had been a dismissal, it was the lightest, politest she’d ever heard—but no one but she had the right to tell anyone in her store what to do. Just as she reached the back of the crowd, however, something told her to look back.

  Ben was gone.

  A breathless Kallie met her just outside the door to the livery. “Did Ben leave?” she asked, anxiously. “Rooh’s gone!”

  “Yep.” Sighing, Annileen looked back into the store. “And he never got the water keg we owe him.”

  “Bizarre. Where do you think he’s from, Mom?”

  “I don’t know. But wherever it is, they sure don’t understand the concept of shopping.”

  Meditation

  Enough.

  Just three visits—and chaos.

  I shouldn’t have gone. I’m endangering the mission.

  I won’t go back there again.

  And needless to say, I’ll be doing these chats mentally from now on. I expect you understand why.

  PART THREE

  THE BRIGHT CENTER

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  SAND PEOPLE LIVED WITH sores every day. At birth, every Tusken infant was swaddled tightly in bandages. The nurses worked so fast A’Yark had never seen her children’s faces. Channeled through little mouthpieces, her sons’ cries had been tinny and agonized. Babies had no way of appreciating the curse that existence represented, nor did they appreciate the shame of exposed flesh. But they quickly became acquainted with the price the coverings exacted on the body.

  Numberless in a lifetime, sores simply had to be endured. K’Sheek had been slow to learn that, years earlier; the human abductee had thought her wrappings were something that could be changed for cleanliness or comfort. She was wrong. Sand People added to their birth wrap as they grew, each new patch a testament to their defiance and survival. If a pebble got into the wrappings, it was simply layered over. The carbuncle it caused became a reminder of the past. A funnel plant simply grew new skin over its wounds. A Tusken could do the same.

  A’Yark understood that defeat was just another sore Sand People lived with. Defeats had to be felt, each and every one—and remembered. And in the days since the massacre at the gorge, A’Yark had felt it every time she opened her eye. The survivors in The Pillars were pathetic, clinging to life like lichen. The first few days had been the worst, with the remaining handful of warriors making pitiful forays to find hubba gourds. Proud raids, indeed!

  The arguments followed. Those posed less danger to A’Yark, now, since most of her rivals were dead. But hapless elders walking in circles decrying their fates irritated her greatly.

  And finally, the sacred well in The Pillars, usually reliable, was dry most days now. The clan’s need hadn’t been reduced much by the massacre; a herd of ownerless banthas remained, and it made no sense to butcher them, whatever tradition said. The worriers had blamed A’Yark and the failed raid for the water problems, too, despite the fact that word was filtering in of similar issues for other clans, elsewhere. If Tatooine had grown angry with its tenants, all Sand People were suffering, not just one tribe.

  A’Yark had no time for recriminations. For while keeping the group from dissolving had taken most of her time, she had still found spare hours for the important thing: keeping watch on Ben.

  The human’s lair was close: farther to the west, along the northern face of the Jundland. A’Yark had found it easily. The winds had been light, and while Ben had shown guile in his attempts to hide his footsteps, no one could track like a Tusken.

  Ben had not returned to the oasis in many days. A’Yark had wondered about that. Didn’t he protect the human woman Annileen? The compound was her home. Had she moved to his? A’Yark didn’t know—but wasn’t about to venture to the oasis to find out. That would be madness now.

  One day, however, A’Yark had spotted Ben riding east. There were cities that way, but he wasn’t taking the fastest route. Rather, he kept to the ridgeline, avoiding contact with settlements. Unable to range far without leaving her defenseless clan behind, A’Yark had lost him.

  So instead, she sat with her bantha and waited. And watched.

  Ben returned the next day to his home. His only cargo was the camping gear he’d taken with him. Whatever his trip east had been, it wasn’t a supply run.

  What drove a human? A’Yark wished she had spent more time listening to Sharad Hett. He had been unwilling to talk about his earlier life with the outsiders; that, after all, was what had driven him to join the Tuskens. She hadn’t even asked K’Sheek many questions. The Sand People had no interest in understanding their enemies. It was enough to know that they bled and died when attacked.

  But now, with the might of her band broken, A’Yark needed to understand. This Ben wanted something; all beings did. It governed his habits and movements. Was the thing he wanted to the east?

  A’Yark would have to consider that another time. The gourd gatherers were late in returning. They can’t even do that right. A’Yark finished sharpening the point of her gaderffii and walked down from The Pillars onto the desert floor.

  In the distant northeast, she saw a peculiar sight. One bantha after another appeared on the horizon. The eldest member of the foraging group rode the lead beast. The fourth and final bantha had a cable around its neck, and was dragging something like a landspeeder. Except it was three times as long as any A’Yark had ever seen.

  “What now?” Gaderffii raised in indignation, A’Yark charged across the sand, trying to get the attention of the makeshift caravan. The hovercraft had a large flatbed surface in back, with something huge lying upon it.

  A vaporator tower.

  A’Yark skidded to a halt. A young Tusken was operating the vehicle, although certainly not as it was supposed to be operated. The thing lurched forward in fits and starts, bumping against the rear legs of the irritated bantha in front of it. The machine was sparking, with fumes rising from beneath its hood; this would likely be its last trip, anywhere.

  The sight of A’Yark caused the bantha riders to stop. That, in turn, resulted in the landspeeder again slamming into the rear bantha. The animal screamed and kicked, its massive foot causing the hovering vehicle to bob and weave on the air.

  A’Yark didn’t know which warrior to smack first. She chose the one in the machine.

  “A settler abandoned it,” the would-be driver said.

  “And you didn’t kill him?”

  The war leader’s tone was enough; the young warrior bowed his head in shame. “They fled. We thought the prize was more important.”

  “The prize!” A’Yark walked along the length of the flatbed. “What are we to do with this?” She smacked the vaporator with her gaderffii, producing a loud clang. “Are you Jawas now? Will you peddle trash for crumbs?”

  “It makes water,” the warrior sitting atop the lead bantha said. “Water! We need—”

  “I know what it does!” A’Yark leered at the metal abomination, astonished that any Tusken didn’t know the offense it represented to the natural order. “Settlers defile the land with vaporators. We destroy them. We do not—”

  A’Yark paused. “Wait,” she said, considering. She faced the driver. “You took this thing from the Smiling One’s farm?”


  “The human war leader from the oasis—and the gorge?” The driver shrank in his seat. The memory of the massacre was still fresh. “No. You told us to stay away from his lands. This was in a different place.”

  Well, at least they listened to one thing, A’Yark thought. Her reconnaissance had given her a sense of what territory the Smiling One considered his. Taking something belonging to him might bring his forces out on another hunt. A’Yark never shrank from battle, but the others would not be ready for that meeting. It was best avoided.

  Sounds came from within the rock formation. A’Yark turned to see children peeking down, curious about the new arrivals. Others would see the giant device, too, if they left it near the entrance to the rift. A’Yark pointed her gaderffii and grunted a command. “The thing will fit in the cave beneath the overhang. Carry it up there—and try not to break it.”

  The young warriors looked at one another, puzzled at the reversal. A’Yark’s next yell put them into motion.

  A’Yark watched it go past and calculated. She wasn’t sure what they would do with it, if anything. But circumstances were dire, and even an object that had no meaning to the Tuskens might become important in the clash against the settlers. It only took a pebble to cause a sore.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “GIVE ME THE BAD NEWS,” Orrin said, squinting upward from beneath his farmer’s hat.

  Veeka shimmied down the scaffold. “Eighty-seven milliliters.”

  “That’s it?” Orrin was stunned. A human on Tatooine could sweat more in five minutes. “The settings have got to be wrong.”

  The young woman mopped her brow angrily and glared at her father. “You want to go up and see?”

  Orrin didn’t. It had been like this everywhere in the eastern range. The Gault sweetwater formula had been producing fine at the test towers just a month earlier. Now it was programmed into all the Pretormins during what normally was the most productive time of the year.

  And the sky seemed to have given up on them.

  “Diagnostic?”

  “Not gonna say anything different today than it did yesterday,” Veeka said. She wiped her hands on her work pants. “Dad, we’ve got to do something else.”

  What? Orrin didn’t know. It wasn’t normal, this performance. It went against everything he knew about the art and the science. Nothing in the atmosphere had changed; everything was well within expected parameters. Yet each of his ten-thousand-credit machines was turning out pedestrian water, half a glass at a time.

  Some farmers simply lost the knack. He couldn’t believe that was the answer. Everything happened for a reason. But it was almost as if the Tuskens’ damaging of Old Number One a couple of weeks earlier had killed the recipe everywhere. There was no connection, of course; the machines were discrete entities, each adjusted by hand. Yet the vaporators acted as if the magic was gone.

  Veeka scaled the tower again, preparing to close the maintenance doors, set high above the reach of Sand People or wildlife. Clinging to the side, she called out, “Someone’s coming.”

  Wyle Ulbreck’s old repulsortruck puttered across the horizon from the direction of the oasis. Orrin recognized it instantly—as did his son, working nearby. Mullen saw his father straightening his shirt. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna try again!”

  “A farmer lives on hope,” Orrin said, waving his hat at the traveler.

  Ulbreck’s vehicle slowed to a stop near the crew. The old man squinted out the window. “Oh,” he said, recognizing Orrin. “It’s you.”

  Orrin smiled. Who else would it be on my own land, you imbecile?

  “You’re leaving early, Wyle.” Orrin stepped to the door. “Finally tell everyone how you saved the Claim from the raging horde?”

  “That’s not it,” Ulbreck said. “Got a call. Some blasted Sandies stole one of my new towers before we even put it up!”

  Ulbreck launched into a rant about Tuskens, Jawas, and incompetents everywhere. Orrin didn’t try to hide his own amusement as he waited for a pause. “Sorry to hear that,” he finally interjected. “Anyone hurt?”

  “Just my pocket!” Ulbreck pounded his fist against the dashboard. “What in the suns would Tuskens want with a vaporator, anyway?”

  Orrin had no idea. He’d never heard of such a theft before. Some vaporators were not much taller than a human, but his Pretormins and Ulbreck’s new industrial machines were gargantuan. For the Tuskens to have stolen one, Ulbreck’s vaunted security personnel must’ve fled their hauler and left the motor running.

  The crisis was ready-made. “Maybe time to sack some people—and go with proven professionals,” Orrin said.

  “Don’t start that again!” Ulbreck glared down at Orrin. “You can’t even protect the Claim. How are you gonna protect my place?” He turned and spat into a cup he kept handy. “Pests, these Sandies. Wasting time, costing money—”

  Orrin was undeterred. “Well, let’s see, Wyle. Since the Tuskens attacked the oasis and we answered, nobody’s seen Plug-eye or any other Sand People. But you just got attacked. And yours is the biggest patch that isn’t protected by the Settlers’ Call.”

  “What are you sayin’?” Angered, Ulbreck stopped his engine, causing the repulsortruck to settle on the sand with a thump.

  “I’m saying maybe the few Tuskens we let live have figured out where the weak spots are. And you’re it.”

  Ulbreck swore. “You’re crazy. Tusken’s got a head like a boulder. They’re incapable of thought.” He looked back out at Orrin’s vaporator tower, looming above. “Besides, say it’s true. I can put up my own sirens, same as you.”

  “Yeah, but will anyone respond to them?” Orrin fished in his pocket and found the remote activator. After the oasis raid, he carried it everywhere now. “It’s not just the sound, Wyle. With this, I can get an army here. An army I can send to get your vaporator back—and crack some skulls in the process.”

  “Those bums aren’t an army. They just want the free drinks you—”

  “Whatever it takes.” Orrin looked at him cannily. “Now, I can’t get you in at the old rates. Prices have gone up. And bringing in all your territory is going to incur costs you’re gonna have to bear. Last in, you know.”

  “Make that never in!” Ulbreck restarted his engine. “I don’t care if Jabba the Hutt signs up. Wyle Ulbreck takes care of his own business!”

  Orrin threw up his hands. With a metallic groan, the repulsortruck continued on its way.

  Mullen looked at his father. “Told you it was a waste of time.”

  “Figured it was worth one more shot,” Orrin said. “This close to the harvest, nobody but Wyle has any money.” He thought for a second and chuckled. “And maybe that Kenobi.”

  Mullen raised an eyebrow. “Kenobi?”

  “Ben. Guy that made a fool out of you, remember? That’s his name,” Orrin said. Quickly, he recounted Ben’s questions about extending protection far to the east.

  “Out near Anchorhead?” Veeka asked, climbing down the ladder. “What business has he got out there?”

  “No idea.” Orrin strained to remember details from the conversation. Ben had mentioned the Lars farm. Why he would care what happens out that way?

  Veeka chucked her tool kit into the back of their work vehicle. “You really think he has money—that he wasn’t just talking?” She grinned. “I thought you said he was an idiot.”

  “That I did,” Orrin said, staring at the Jundland peaks far away. “Man lives on the fringe, babbling to himself and dressing like the Tuskens stole his wardrobe. That’s the sort of human driftwood your mother would take in.” And leave with, he did not have to say. “But crazy people need protecting, too. Some even have money.”

  Probably not this crazy person, though. Orrin knew it wasn’t worth wasting thoughts on the man. Ben hadn’t been around in days—and there were bigger problems coming up. He took a last forlorn look at the vaporator. “Let’s pack it in. We’re not going to fix this by the deadline.”

  Mulle
n was startled. “No harvest? But those people who came to see you—”

  “Shouldn’t have been allowed anywhere near the Claim,” Orrin said, aggravated. It had been a sore point in the family. Somebody on the work crews should have stopped “Master Boopa” before he reached the Claim. Or at least alerted Orrin.

  Veeka stood beside her brother. She looked serious, for once. “What will you—I mean, what will we do?”

  “Your great-granddaddy told me something,” Orrin said. “Every problem’s got two solutions. You wait until you figure two ways out of a problem—and then you try them both at the same time. Because by the time you need a backup plan, it’s too late.”

  Orrin paused and thought about what was scheduled to happen in the next twenty-four hours—and about the plans he had to deal with it all. “You go see if Zedd’s ready to work,” he said, flashing a reassuring smile as he climbed into his vehicle. “I’ve got some things to prepare.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  LEELEE NEARLY DROPPED her packages when she opened the door. “Annileen!”

  In the middle of the Claim’s dining area, a scaffold sat tipped at an angle, two of its supports wedged against the domed ceiling above. Annileen clung to the top of the structure, dangling precariously. She looked over her shoulder at her visitor. “Hi, Leelee. What’s new?”

  The Zeltron set her parcels down and rushed over. A bucket lay overturned in the middle of a white, soapy puddle, near where the rickety tower stood. “You’re washing the ceiling?”

  “Not anymore, no.” Annileen’s wet hand slipped again. In grabbing hold, she set the whole structure quaking. “I’ve been calling for Jabe, but I think he’s in the stockroom!”

  “Asleep, you mean.” Leelee pushed a table away to reach the scaffold. She steadied it long enough for Annileen to twist around and reach for one of the vertical supports.

  Carefully, Annileen climbed down. “Thanks,” she said, breathing deeply. “I was afraid I’d have to wait for the dinner rush.”