by Greg Bear
“No!” Gann cried. “We must defer to the Magister!”
“No one has seen the Magister for months!” Shappa replied. “He issues his orders from the mountain and defers to us more often than not. Not even his daughter has seen him.”
“The Magister is in command! He always has been, and he always will be!”
The two Ferroans seemed about to come to blows. Fitch was embarrassed by their loss of dignity.
“What happened to Vergere?” Obi-Wan asked, thrusting an arm between the two men.
“No one knows,” Sheekla Farrs said, her voice high and clear over the grumbling breaking out among the technicians on the platform. “We were afraid you would think we had murdered her.”
“We have lived in fear since the Far Outsiders!” Shappa said. “They were the first to challenge our way of life.”
“Who are the Far Outsiders?” Obi-Wan asked.
“You do not know?” Sheekla seemed at a loss that Jedi would be so ill-informed. “The female Jedi—” She caught herself and flung her hand over her mouth.
Gann was beside himself. “The Magister must decide!” he insisted.
“Then take us to him,” Obi-Wan said, irritated by the confusion. He could sense they had little time to waste. “Let him tell us personally.”
A moment of silence among the Ferroans.
“Do we trust the Jedi?” Shappa asked them. “If the Trade Federation is here—”
“Then they are operating illegally, and they might as well be pirates,” Obi-Wan said. “The Trade Federation is handing over all its weapons and ships to the senate. The rule of central law is being restored in the Republic.”
“That is what we have heard from our factors,” Sheekla Farrs said. “But we considered it of no consequence, since Zonama is so far from all that.”
“The Magister must be consulted,” Gann persisted, but his voice was weakening. He wrung his hands, close to despair. “It has always been our law.”
Anakin stood by the Sekotan ship, his hand brushing the surface. His eyes were half-closed, and he seemed lost in a dream, perhaps of flying. Obi-Wan called his name, but he did not immediately respond.
“Anakin!” Obi-Wan called again, more forcefully.
The boy jerked and came to attention. “We’re in danger,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “We should leave here.”
Obi-Wan needed no more warning, but he stopped as more Ferroans rushed along the bridge, calling for Gann. “There is another!” they cried in unison.
“Another what?” Gann asked.
“A second fleet within the system, even larger than the first!”
“Now, Obi-Wan!” Anakin cried.
Obi-Wan looked up and saw descending flashes of light in the sky—two of them. They were swooping down out of orbit, still trailing hot plasma tails. With his keen vision he could see their glowing outlines. He recognized them instantly.
He had faced them before, on Naboo, with Qui-Gon. The most capable and deadly of all the Trade Federation droids.
“Starfighters!” he shouted, and tugged Anakin down beside him, just in time to avoid four slashes of laser fire. He pulled his lightsaber—Qui-Gon’s lightsaber—from his belt, and the glowing green blade hummed to full length. Smoke from the melted rock rose on either side, cutting off their view. Obi-Wan shifted into a state of full-sensory alertness. His ears tracked the engine whine and sonic booms of the maneuvering starfighters. They were turning for another attack. He faced in that direction to deflect their fire with his blade.
“Stay down,” Obi-Wan told Anakin, seeing the boy climb to his knees.
“The ship—”
“Forget the ship,” Obi-Wan said. “We need to find shelter.”
“We can escape in the ship!” Anakin insisted. “She’s ready to go!”
Obi-Wan took hold of his shoulder and pushed him low to the smooth rock surface. Thus distracted, he could not raise the lightsaber in time to provide even a partial deflection for the next laser salvo. The blast knocked him several meters and tumbled him over and over. Flecks of broken and molten rock flew through the air, burning his clothes, drilling into his skin. Instinctively, he held up one arm to shield his face and the other to protect Anakin.
But the boy was out of reach. Obi-Wan could not get up. Something had slammed into his solar plexus—a sharp piece of rock. He found blood there and a hole in his tunic.
Then he heard footsteps. People shouting, crying out in pain.
Anakin made a sound through the smoke, a cough and then a sharp grunt, as if he had been struck. Obi-Wan tried to roll over, tried to reach out for his Padawan, but he could not regain control of his body, even with the most extraordinary concentration of effort.
A figure loomed out of the murk and stood over Obi-Wan: tall, dressed in dark blue, many-jointed, with iridescent golden skin. A booted foot came down on his arm and pinned it.
“I could kill you now, Jedi. Your death will restore my honor.”
Small black eyes focused on Obi-Wan. He grasped the hilt of his lightsaber and extended the blade. The foot stomped his arm again, nearly breaking it, and kicked the lightsaber out of his hand, out of reach. The blade skittered and sizzled across the rock.
More laser salvos slashed through the air behind the Blood Carver, blowing apart the suspension bridge and setting the buildings on an adjacent pillar ablaze. The glow of destruction made his shining skin dance like a flame, part of the destruction.
“Yes, Jedi, I live,” the Blood Carver snarled. “I still live.”
Anakin had done his best to elude the nightmare that rushed forward out of the smoke, but the laser blasts had stunned him as well as Obi-Wan. He could only crawl backward on his elbows and grimace up at the shadow, trying to make his body hurry or time slow. Time slowed, all right, but he did not speed up.
The shadow disappeared in a fresh billow of smoke, reemerged, became clear.
“Slave boy!”
It was the same Blood Carver Anakin had encountered in the garbage pit. He carried a long shaping lance with a wicked blade on the end and moved quick as lightning. He swung the lance down so quickly Anakin hardly had time to begin his roll to one side. The flat of the blade struck the boy across the back of his skull and neck. His head exploded with sparking pain.
The blow stunned him, but he did not lose consciousness. He felt himself lifted by one ankle, like an amphibian delicacy on Tatooine, and swung through the smoke, dripping blood from his nose. As his assailant whirled him about, he saw the Sekotan ship still in her tendril sling, undamaged.
The Blood Carver casually plucked out and threw aside an engineer who poked up from the dilated opening in the hull, then hoisted Anakin over the ship’s side lobe and dropped him in. Then he crawled after.
Anakin found he could move a little, but pretended to be inert. Where’s Obi-Wan? Is he still alive? How could this all happen so fast?
But he knew. This was the trial, the test no Jedi Temple could provide, no Jedi Master could oversee.
The Force is never a nursemaid.
Anakin was on his own. The first thing he did, while the Blood Carver poked around the interior, looking for any other engineers, was to still all his resentment, all his feelings of failure and inferiority, and most important, his self-anger at having distracted Obi-Wan with his own foolish regard for the ship.
That regard was not so foolish. The ship is part of your power—it is essential in the here and now. It is the beginning of your trial—and it will end with the trial of Zonama Sekot. Your master cannot help you now.
He thought for a moment this might be the suspended voice of Obi-Wan, or even Qui-Gon Jinn, but it was not. If the voice had any quality whatsoever, it was his own—older, more mature. The Jedi I will become. All I have trained to be.
The Blood Carver growled and Anakin heard a small shriek. Jabitha was pushed forward from the back of the cabin, where she had hidden behind a thick cross brace.
She glanced at Ana
kin, eyes wild with fear like a small, trapped animal. The Blood Carver yanked her arm and tossed her lightly into an alcove beside the rear acceleration couches.
“Be still! He’s dangerous,” Anakin warned her.
Jabitha dropped her jaw as if to speak, but the Blood Carver slapped her hard across the face, then swiveled gracefully, grabbed Anakin by the shoulders, and yanked him into the pilot’s seat. The seat automatically adjusted to Anakin’s body, and he felt a greeting from the ship—a tremulous recognition of his presence.
The seed-partners had united. They spoke now as one, reporting the ship’s condition, her readiness—and their concern. The ship knew something was wrong, but Anakin was still too groggy, his movements too uncoordinated, for him to hazard any action.
Jabitha crawled into a rear passenger seat, whimpering. Her face was bloody.
Anakin’s blood seemed to chill. He felt her pain.
The Blood Carver took the seat that had been made for Obi-Wan. He squirmed uncomfortably, then reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small, glassy green bulb.
Anakin watched through mostly closed eyes, slumped in the couch, as the long, triple-jointed arm swung out and slender, strong, golden fingers crushed the bulb under his nose.
Again, Anakin’s head seemed to explode—but this time with outraged life. He flung himself away from the bulb’s acrid stench and slammed his shoulder into an instrument panel. He shook all over and stared hard at his kidnapper.
“Young Jedi, there is no time to explain.” The Blood Carver’s tone of voice changed suddenly, became more subdued.
“Is Obi-Wan dead?”
“Not your worry,” the Blood Carver said. “This ship needs you, not him. And I need this ship. You will fly it to orbit above Zonama Sekot.”
“What if I don’t?”
“Then I will kill your female.” He swung the lance around in the close quarters and poked the blade against Jabitha’s chest. She gasped but kept very still.
Anakin tried to feel for his master’s living presence, but there were too many voices outside the ship, too much confusion—he could not detect Obi-Wan. Uninjured, his master would doubtless survive any attack the Blood Carver could mount. But if he had been hit by the laser fire …
The Blood Carver climbed up out of the second seat and swung one long arm back to the hatch. “I assume silence means courage and you will not fly. So my mission has failed. I will kill the female now and dispose of her body.”
“No!” Anakin shouted. “I’ll fly. Leave her be.”
He probed once more, and sucked in his breath with relief. He could feel Obi-Wan—he was injured but still alive. Anakin could not imagine a universe without his master.
Good. It would be the end of your trial to lose your master. Now … begin.
Anakin ran his hands over the controls. They were not marked, but their design and placement were reasonably standard.
The ship once again explained her condition. She was ready to fly, but her fuel reserves were low—the tanks had not yet been filled by the technicians.
“We don’t have enough fuel to get far,” Anakin informed the Blood Carver. The Blood Carver grabbed the placket of his ritual robe and pulled Anakin close, breathing hot, peppery breath into his face.
“It’s true,” Anakin insisted. “I’m not lying.”
“Then fly to a place with fuel. We must preserve this ship.”
“You’re the one who couldn’t get a ship made! The seed-partners hated you.”
“Yes, I am a disgrace,” the Blood Carver said coldly. “Now fly.”
Anakin brought his hands down over the controls, pulled back on the aft thrusters, and the ship’s engines sang to life instantly, smoothly, unlike the engines in any other ship he had ever flown.
The hatch closed.
Some maiden voyage.
Anakin pushed the control levers forward. The console reached up around his fingers and hands. The ship spoke to him, taught him what to do. Anakin, in turn, suggested that the ship should break free of her cradle and fly straight up for a few hundred meters, then level off and head southwest.
The ship did all these things.
He was taking the Blood Carver away from Obi-Wan, giving his master time to recover. It was unfortunate that Jabitha had crawled into the ship. Anakin was more than just concerned for her safety.
He could feel his strength returning, and then building. To his dismay, the primary component of that strength was a red heat of anger.
It is the way, boy. Anger and hatred are the fuel. Stoke them, gather strength.
Again, the voice, terrifying in its power. Anakin could not identify its intent—it was raw, the voice of loyalty and survival, and it seemed to sneer at any second-guessing.
Anakin did not want Jabitha to see what that voice would make him be, what he would become, in order to save Obi-Wan, defeat his enemies, and survive.
Raith Sienar looked out from the command bridge and saw the newly arrived fleet of twelve ships maneuvering to join up with his squadron. He recognized two converted midsized Hoersch-Kessel Drive cargo haulers—smaller than the ungainly craft that had blockaded Naboo, but of the same type. The remaining ten ships were Corellian Engineering light cruisers designed to escort the large Republic Dreadnoughts, the most powerful weapons in the Republic armory.
Yet Tarkin had not managed to procure any Dreadnoughts. His connections were not that strong.
Captain Kett surveyed the new ships with some satisfaction, no doubt anticipating the time when he would no longer have to take orders from Sienar.
The extent of Tarkin’s betrayal was all too clear to Sienar. The starfighter droids had accepted Sienar’s programming, but had enacted hidden code anyway—code designed to sabotage Sienar’s plans. For all he knew, the starfighters had killed Ke Daiv, aroused the inhabitants of Zonama Sekot, and completely ruined any chance of getting a Sekotan ship.
Perhaps all Tarkin cared about was making himself look good before the Supreme Chancellor.
Kett walked up the steps to the command deck. Sienar turned to meet him.
“Captain Kett,” he said, “prepare to receive Commander Tarkin. I empower you to coordinate with his command and tender my resignation as commander.”
“Sir, that is not regulation.”
“Nothing done so far has been according to regulations. You are at the mercy of rogues once again, Captain Kett. I will not be one of those rogues anymore.”
“Sir, you don’t understand—”
“I understand only too well.”
“I have orders from Commander Tarkin.”
“He’s here already?” Sienar asked with a lift of his lips, neither surprise nor amusement.
“He will board Admiral Korvin and assume command at any moment. He does not need your permission.”
“I see.”
“You cannot resign, because you have been placed under arrest. Your rank is frozen pending a formal hearing.”
“Have they communicated charges?”
“No, sir.”
Sienar shook his head and laughed. “By all means, then, do what must be done. Lock me away.”
“Commander Tarkin requests the security codes to all of the new programs installed in the ship’s droids, sir.”
“You told him?”
“I told him nothing, sir. He seems to have anticipated you would do some such thing.”
Sienar laughed again, even more falsely. His face flushed with anger. “Tell him the droid programs are burned in and cannot be modified. Also, tell him attempts to remove the computer cores or engage in a memory wipe will initiate droid self-destruct.”
“Sir, that would put our entire complement of droids out of action!”
“It did not stop the starfighters, Captain Kett. I’m sure Tarkin can figure out some work-around. I just don’t want to help him do it.”
Kett examined Sienar with a puzzled expression. “Sir, what is all this about? Some dispute between you an
d Commander Tarkin?”
“Not at all,” Sienar said. “From the beginning, I’ve been assigned the role of patsy. Our mission was meant to go wrong. It has gone wrong. We’ve alerted Zonama Sekot to our presence. Subtlety and finesse are out of the question. From now on, it will be brute force and coercion. More Tarkin’s style. Nothing I do or don’t do now can change that. I’ll be in my quarters, should Tarkin wish to see me.”
He climbed down the steps and made his way forward, to the commander’s quarters. Along the way, in the wide main corridor that ran above the cargo holds of the Admiral Korvin, Republic troops blocked his path.
Tarkin walked through as the troops parted, and greeted Sienar with a curt nod.
“We need to talk,” Tarkin said, and took him by the elbow. “Things have gone badly wrong here, and I need to know why. The senate is concerned by your actions. Even Chancellor Palpatine has taken an interest.”
“Perhaps you briefed him yourself?” Sienar’s expression was stony. “We should go to my quarters. We can talk there.”
“What, and have some lackey droid kill us both? Honorable, arguably, but foolish, Raith. We’ll go to my ship, where I know what to expect.”
Sheekla is injured,” Shappa told him. “The medics are seeing to her. Gann is in shock.”
Obi-Wan quickly stripped off the ceremonial robe. Underneath he had worn his more familiar tunic. The large chip of rock had punched him hard, bruising a nerve center and scrambling his bodily control, but had not penetrated deeply. The pain was intense but no problem for a Jedi Knight. He removed the tunic, took a long bandage from Shappa, and wrapped it around his midriff. Then he slipped back into the tunic. The architect held up the lightsaber, and Obi-Wan lifted it from his hand.
Gann stumbled across the platform, face racked with confusion. “What are we to do? The Magister must rule on this. Who will order activation of the defenses? Perhaps it is time. We must flee!”
Shappa pushed him gently aside. “The leadership seems to devolve upon me, now,” Shappa told Obi-Wan. “How may I help you, Jedi?”
“I need a transport. A spacecraft, if possible,” Obi-Wan said. “To follow them.”
