by Claudia Gray
The sudden shift to the offensive didn’t make Thurible blink. “We, too, are curious about this. To have so many ships going astray, so suddenly—it’s alarming for the Republic, I’m sure.”
“Alarming may be too strong a word. But these disappearances are disruptive, and the Republic will ultimately take whatever measures are necessary to protect the shipments.”
Thurible inclined his head again, though the obsequious tone had left his voice as he replied, “How good it is to know that the Republic protects its many citizens so well.”
Of course Qui-Gon knew that the Hutts had been capturing and seizing these shipments, selling the foodstuffs to struggling independent planets of the Outer Rim. And Thurible knew that Qui-Gon knew. But as long as Qui-Gon could make the Hutts stop—at least for now—there was no point in a direct challenge. It would only lead to bloodshed, at the end of which the Republic would remain triumphant and strong. The Hutts would scramble and scurry through months of infighting, at the end of which a new set of crime lords would emerge to behave in exactly the same way.
“Sometimes,” Qui-Gon murmured, “it feels as though nothing in the galaxy will ever change.”
Thurible straightened, obviously unsure what to make of the shift in topic. Folding his hands together, he furrowed his dark brows. “Do you truly think so, Jedi?”
There had been a time when Qui-Gon believed great, transformative change was possible. That these changes had been foreseen millennia ago by the Jedi mystics. How young he’d been. How innocent, how optimistic.
Time had taught him better.
“Nothing remains static,” Qui-Gon said, “but sentient beings will always remain the same.”
Thurible shook his head no. “Changes come when we least expect them—but they do come.” He was more on guard now than he had been when Qui-Gon had his lightsaber to Wanbo’s neck. His dark eyes searched Qui-Gon’s for something unguessable. “Who knows what transformations we may yet live to see?”
“Nice place, Alderaan,” said Rahara Wick as the Meryx flew away from the planet. “Beautiful. Serene.”
“Not to mention unsuspecting,” Pax Maripher added with relish. “I like that in a planet.”
“Good. Because it’s the last place I want to run into any problems.”
“Why?” Pax frowned at her. “We’d face far harsher penalties virtually anywhere else.”
Rahara crossed her arms. “Yeah, but on Alderaan we couldn’t bribe our way out of it.”
“They are appallingly moral, aren’t they? No place for you and me.” Pax smiled mischievously. Sometimes he liked to pretend they were far more criminal than they actually were.
Rahara, on the other hand, sometimes liked to pretend they weren’t criminal at all. After all, they hurt no one. They took nothing of any value from the worlds they visited. Just rocks.
But one planet’s rock was another planet’s jewel.
Take Alderaan, for instance. Its archipelago continent was practically carpeted with a fine, whitish stone that was most often used as gravel. But take that stone to Rodia—show it to Rodians, whose eyes detected some wavelengths humans didn’t—and it became spectacular, iridescent, glittering. It became precious.
Millennia ago, back in the days of legend, when the Sith still governed so much of the galaxy, gemstones had been traded freely. But flooding the market with a precious commodity tended to destroy the commodity’s value. Sometimes it led to widespread looting or illicit mining on worlds whose ordinary stone was extraordinary elsewhere. An influx of such jewels could even collapse a planetary economy. So strict rules had been put in place to regulate, and even ban, the trading of most gems.
She and Pax were simply…pretending those rules didn’t exist. They couldn’t crash an entire world’s economy, not just the two of them. As Pax had said to her, when he first hired her as a copilot and analyst, Who would notice if we took what little could fit in the Meryx’s hold? Who would be the poorer? No one. So why shouldn’t we be the richer?
Rahara didn’t see why not. It wasn’t like they were real crooks.
But it was something she had to tell herself, time and time again.
They were in some ways an unlikely pair: Rahara had grown up rough, to put it lightly, and taught herself everything she knew, while Pax had been educated by droids with memory banks containing endless data, droids with absolutely nothing else to do. She was tall, with golden skin and straight, blue-black hair that fell to her waist. Pax was a few centimeters shorter, with wiry hair that sprang up from his head as though he’d been electrocuted, and a complexion so pale that strangers sometimes asked if he was from a planet where the population lived underground. His clothes were of the finest quality, but disheveled, and hung slightly on his skinny frame; Rahara wore plain black working garb she bought on the cheap from spaceport stalls, which could be made to look local almost anywhere with the addition of a simple cape or hood. They were both human; that was where the similarities ended.
Most people write us off as an absentminded scholar and his low-class pilot, Rahara thought. That was fine by her. The important thing was that they be written off. Overlooked. Forgotten.
She’d spent her childhood being monitored. Being controlled. Rahara would never allow that to happen again.
Pax pulled the lever that sent the Meryx into hyperspace. As the viewscreens turned blue with wavering light, Rahara rose from her seat. “I’m going to check the spectrometer.”
“No need to bother just yet,” Pax said in his crisp Coruscanti accent. “We won’t be heading to Rodia for weeks.” It was important not to travel directly between the stones’ source and the market; that left a trail.
“Might as well.” In truth, silences between her and Pax had become…awkward, lately. Better to have something to do.
Rahara went to the ladder and clambered down into the heart of the Meryx. In most Gozanti-class freighters, this space would be an ordinary cargo hold, stark bare metal and not that much light.
In the Meryx, however, the entire space glowed golden. And at its heart lay thousands of kilograms of gemstones.
She would’ve been impressed by Pax’s scanner-blocking field no matter what. But he hadn’t only created the technology; he’d also made it beautiful. Beauty mattered to Pax, she knew. Whether or not he’d ever admit it, that was the real reason he stole jewels rather than other, easier, more lucrative cargo. He just liked looking at them.
But Pax Maripher would never admit he did anything for sentimental reasons.
Pulling her hair into a ponytail, Rahara stripped off the robe that had helped her pass unnoticed through Aldera. She stepped to the scanner-blocking field’s controls, which were fiendishly complicated; she’d been working with Pax for a pretty long while now, and still she needed to review them every time. (Pax didn’t understand what people meant by user-friendly. Either you were smart enough to use his tech, or you weren’t.) Once ready, she pushed her sleeves back to her elbows, and then punched in the commands that took the field down—a flood of brightening light, followed by darkness—for just a split second. That was enough time for her to grab a large handful of their haul. When she was only centimeters clear, the field reenergized with a blinding flare. Blinking, Rahara congratulated herself on not getting singed this time.
“You know,” Pax said from the ladder behind her, “we’ve made what is known as a clean getaway. You can turn the field off.”
“You say that every time. And every time, I tell you I need to practice operating the field in tighter time frames.”
“I would’ve thought you’d have it by now.”
Carrying the gems, Rahara stalked over to the other side of the hold, where the spectrometer bench sat. “I would’ve thought you’d have learned how to interact with other human beings by now, instead of suggesting everyone in the galaxy is a moron, besides you. Looks li
ke we’re both disappointed.”
She lay the stones on the bench and began separating them by size and probable quality. Rahara had first been put to work sorting minerals when she was only nine years old; to her, this was almost automatic.
“Rahara,” Pax said more quietly. “I’m sorry if I hurt you. I meant it as a joke.”
He hadn’t hurt her, merely irritated her, but that was bad enough. Sometimes she got weary of a partner who acted more like a protocol droid than a human being—even if he did have a good excuse. “Do you see anybody laughing?”
“I do not. Obviously my understanding of humor requires refinement.”
That, of course, made her chuckle. Pax was funniest when he didn’t try.
“We ought to talk,” Pax said as Rahara strapped on her magnifying goggles. “About our next destination.”
“Gamorr, right?” Which would be disgusting, but at least they could call on their fresh memories of Alderaan to get them through weeks of dredging fetid swamps. “Sooooo excited about that.”
“You’re being sarcastic. Let me assure you that this lack of enthusiasm is entirely mutual. The thing is, I’ve been thinking.” Pax leaned closer, peering down his long nose at the white gravel on the bench. “We can collect Gamorrean coral anytime. But what if we went after something rarer? Rather more valuable?”
“Like what? Mustafar fire diamonds?” Rahara had never been to Mustafar, but from what she’d heard it would make working on Gamorr seem like a journey to paradise.
“Nothing so dangerous.” He half turned to face her as he said, “Kyber crystals.”
“Kyber? Are you nuts?” Rahara pushed her goggles atop her head, the better to look him in the eyes. “The Jedi police Kyber trading like…like…well, more closely than anything we’ve ever traded. Or anything we ever should trade.”
“Yet a black market still exists—as well as certain industrial applications. And if no industry will buy from us, and the markets in question are rather too black for our comfort, well, we could alert the Jedi to a new trove of kyber. Make some friends. It could come in handy someday, having friends among the Jedi.”
That made more sense. Still—“Kyber isn’t found in that many places. The Jedi control those areas. Are you seriously suggesting we try to steal from them?”
Pax scoffed. “Please. I’m not suicidal. I’m daring. I’m also the person who might just have found a completely undiscovered kyber source—on the moon of a perfectly safe world, even. No guards, no danger, a pleasant climate, and, if my analysis is correct, a very large number of kyber crystals.”
Rahara had seen Pax combing through various planetary scans for hours on end—all public information, yet too minute and dense for most people to search through without already knowing what they were looking for. But he saw more than others did.
She said, “I knew there was a reason I put up with you.”
A grin spread across Pax’s face. “Then let’s hunt some kyber.”
* * *
—
Traveling home proved awkward. Obi-Wan was obviously hoping to avoid talking about what had gone wrong during the firefight on Teth—no wonder, for someone so young.
In many ways, Obi-Wan was so mature for his age, so steady, that Qui-Gon sometimes forgot he was just seventeen years old. Only in moments like this, as they sat side by side in the cockpit of the Rainhawk-class shuttle, did Qui-Gon realize how gawky his Padawan still was, how both the past child and the future man could be glimpsed in his face.
As always during those moments, Qui-Gon felt a pang of guilt. Obi-Wan had such potential. Such promise.
He deserved a Master who could bring it out in him.
They’d been an uneasy match from the start, with misunderstandings and emotional swings. That in itself wasn’t unusual. Qui-Gon sometimes questioned why Padawans were transferred from the crèche to their Masters in the middle of most species’ adolescence—exactly when every change became more difficult. (He, like Dooku and Yoda and Yoda’s old Master before him, had taken a younger Padawan; Obi-Wan had become his apprentice at thirteen. This had not helped.) Qui-Gon had talked things through with fellow Masters such as Mace Windu and Depa Billaba, even Yoda, all of whom assured Qui-Gon that the initial months were almost always rough. “Worry you should, if conflict arises not,” Yoda had intoned. “Then growing enough, your Padawan cannot be.” Had Qui-Gon’s first months with Dooku been so different?
But he had forged a powerful bond with Dooku well before they’d been together for a year. Most Masters and apprentices did. Yes, Rael had helped at first, but he and Dooku would’ve come together regardless. It was Dooku who had guided Qui-Gon through the ancient Jedi prophecies, igniting interests in ancient history and linguistics that would long survive his fervent belief in the mystics’ foresight. Besides that, they’d shared so many personality traits: self-reliance, skepticism, and a reluctance to take the Council’s word as sacred.
The characteristics he and Dooku had in common were, almost entirely, the ones for which he and Obi-Wan were exact opposites. Qui-Gon believed in dealing with each situation on its own merits; Obi-Wan wanted procedures to follow. Qui-Gon valued flexibility, which Obi-Wan seemed to think of as sloppiness. Qui-Gon had learned to get on better with the Council over time, but had always retained his independence. Obi-Wan still thought he had to obey the Council in every particular, at all times, and was horrified every time Qui-Gon deviated from standard protocols in the slightest.
None of this made Obi-Wan a bad candidate to become a Jedi Knight. Many Jedi Knights—some of the best—thought and acted along the same lines. But it made him an awkward match for Qui-Gon. Years into their partnership, they still remained out of sync. Had the situation been more dire today—if the threat in the Hutt palace had been more serious—that gap in their mutual understanding could well have gotten them killed.
How do I fix this? Qui-Gon wondered. Can I? Obi-Wan deserves no less.
“I’m sorry about before, Master,” Obi-Wan finally said. “I should’ve understood what you meant by getting the door—and letting myself get caught stealing a ship—”
“Obi-Wan. The fault was mine.” Qui-Gon lay one broad hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “First I gave you unclear instructions.” And a better Master could’ve taught his Padawan to understand his battle instincts by now. “And I knew you probably wouldn’t be able to get a ship all by yourself—it was worth a try, that’s all. You’re not to blame.”
Most Padawans would be relieved to be off the hook. Obi-Wan only frowned. “I can do better.”
Qui-Gon sighed. “We both can. Now let’s get home.”
* * *
—
On the planet Pijal, beneath a blazing sunset, the race was on.
“C’mon!” shouted Rael Averross, urging his mount onward—toward a wide gash in the ground, deep and stony. The varactyl chirruped as it sprang forward, crossing the chasm in one bound. As its heavy, clawed feet thudded onto the grass, Averross laughed out loud. “There we go,” he cried in his thick Ringo Vindan accent. “That’s it!”
Varactyls had been imported from Utapau some decades ago by the Iltan clan, to give themselves an edge in the Grand Hunt. By now those original creatures had been bred into streamlined, swift, crimson-feathered varactyls unique to Pijal. Someday, Averross figured, the rest of the galaxy would discover the Pijal varactyls, and after that no one would ever race fathiers again. For the time being, however, these creatures—their speed, the sheer joy of riding them—belonged to Pijal alone.
Averross sighted the finish beacon and silently directed his varactyl toward it; the beast responded instantly, accelerating with every bit of its strength to reach the end as fast as possible. Varactyls loved speed for its own sake, and Averross thought they even understood the difference between winning and losing. His mount trilled its battle cry as it dashed past t
he line, skidding to a stop so fast its claws cut sharp lines in the loamy ground. With a grin, Averross reached into the gear basket and grabbed a large stick of mollusk jerky—a Pijal “delicacy” he couldn’t stand. The varactyl appreciated the stuff more, chewing with relish.
Other riders reached the line, shouting their congratulations and friendly taunts as they did so. Averross hopped to the ground as they began leading their varactyls back to the palace stables. He shook his head ruefully just after he landed. Next to him, Captain Deren—stoic as ever—asked, “Is there a problem?”
“Just wonderin’ why my knees are rude enough to age along with the rest of me.”
“You could get synthetic replacements—”
“No big deal. You know what they say about gettin’ old—it beats the alternative.” Averross tried to remember that. Force knew he’d seen too many people fall before their time. If sometimes, in the morning, he looked at himself in the mirror and wondered who that graying old geezer was…well, that was just proof he wasn’t dead yet. And he intended to live his remaining life to the fullest.
Once they reached the stables, the servant boys took the varactyls’ reins from the riders and walked the beasts off for dust baths and feed. Deren and some of the other soldiers went back to their barracks afterward, but Averross led the larger group to the nearest cantina. It wasn’t exactly palatial—a muddy hole carved out of a dingy rock, which smelled a fair bit like the Wookiee bartender—but that was one reason Averross liked the place. The customers gave a cheer of welcome as he strode in, and the hostess—Selbie, who had blond hair, a saucy smile, and large breasts—gave him a warm smile as she took his long cloak.
The rider closest to Averross leaned in and muttered, “The two of you back on, then?”
“Maybe.” Averross didn’t indulge in female companionship often. When people found out about it, they got distracted. Made a fuss. It wasn’t often worth it. But…it had been a while, and Selbie was decently close to his own age, and she had the bawdiest sense of humor of anyone he’d ever met.
