Master & Apprentice (Star Wars)

by Claudia Gray

  And those were just from the adventures Obi-Wan had been around for. As his eyes traveled around the room, picking out unfamiliar objects on shelves and in corners, he realized anew just how many places Qui-Gon had been, how many things he’d done. No matter how unorthodox Qui-Gon was, Obi-Wan knew he was lucky to have such a Master. He just had to find a way to make Qui-Gon feel lucky to have him.

  “Do you believe,” Qui-Gon said at last, “that studying the prophecies is a way of divining the future?”

  Obi-Wan wondered if this was a trick question. “Isn’t that the definition of a prophecy? A prediction about what’s to come?”

  “In some senses. But prophecies are also about the present. The ancient Jedi mystics were attempting to look into the future, but they were rooted in their own time—as we all are.” Qui-Gon settled back into his chair and motioned for Obi-Wan to sit as well. “They could only predict the future through the prism of their own experience. So by studying their words, their warnings, we learn more about their ways than any history holo could ever teach us. And by asking ourselves how we interpret these prophecies, we discover our own fears, hopes, and limitations.”

  Being a Padawan was reminder enough of his hopes and limitations, in Obi-Wan’s opinion, but he knew better than to say so. “You mean, you don’t take the prophecies literally.”

  “Once, when I was younger—” Qui-Gon shrugged. “But no. I don’t. However, I also don’t assume they’re meaningless, like most Jedi these days. Learning what the ancient mystics believed ties us to our history.”

  “The Jedi don’t have such mystics anymore,” Obi-Wan pointed out. “We’re meant to put aside visions of the future, because we can’t know whether they’ll come to pass. Master Yoda even says such visions can bring a Jedi to darkness.”

  “Yes, seeking to know the future can be a form of control, which can lead to the dark side,” Qui-Gon said in his deep, resonant voice. From his tone, Obi-Wan knew his Master had heard all this from Yoda many times before. “And learning the forms of lightsaber combat is a way of preparing for violence. Violence, too, can lead to the dark side. We are entrusted with great diplomatic power, which means we exert influence over entire systems—”

  “I understand what you mean,” Obi-Wan said. “Many paths can lead to the dark side.”

  “As Jedi, we possess power that average beings do not, and never will. Holding power over other beings will always require us to be vigilant against the darkness within us. Our ability to sometimes glimpse potential futures is no more or less dangerous than any of our other talents.”

  Obi-Wan decided to keep pushing. Qui-Gon respected challenge…to a point. “The mystics of old sought to know the events of centuries and millennia to come. Is that not arrogance? An unwillingness to accept the natural flow of the Force? We may see their writings in a more metaphorical light, but they didn’t. They truly thought they were divining what would come to pass.”

  “I don’t set myself up as judge of the ancient mystics, and neither should you.” Qui-Gon wasn’t going to share any more than that, apparently. Already he’d turned his attention back to the records Obi-Wan had brought him. “You’ve done good work here. This should provide me with reading for several days.” A glint of humor shone in his blue eyes. “In other words, you’re safe from the Archives for a while. Go spend time with your friends.”

  Obi-Wan grinned. “Thank you, Master.” He rose to leave, then paused. “But…how many more Archive trips do you think I’ll have to make?” This prophecy project had been going on for two years now; surely even Qui-Gon didn’t mean to investigate them indefinitely.

  Qui-Gon froze, cup halfway to his lips. The expression on his face was difficult to read—realization, perhaps, and dismay.

  “Master? I didn’t mean to complain about the Archives.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Qui-Gon said. His eyes didn’t meet Obi-Wan’s. “We’ll talk later. About many things.”

  Somewhat cryptic, Obi-Wan thought, but for Qui-Gon that was nothing new. “Good night, then.”

  “Good night.”

  Obi-Wan hurried toward the lower levels, hoping it was still early enough for him to pick up a game of dejarik, maybe. Something nagged at him about the final moments of his conversation with Qui-Gon. Obviously his Master was keeping some kind of secret.

  But it couldn’t be anything to do with Obi-Wan himself. If it were, his Master would’ve told him.

  “You’re frightened,” said Master Dooku.

  Qui-Gon Jinn, twelve years old, knelt in front of his new Master. Only yesterday, Dooku had chosen him as Padawan. He’d spent his last night in the younglings’ crèche laughing with his friends, imagining all the adventures he would have, and practicing with his lightsaber in the sparring room until Master Yaddle ordered him to bed.

  But this morning, he’d had to pack his few possessions in a small bundle and leave the crèche where he’d lived as long as he could remember. He’d been given the traditional Padawan haircut for humans and no longer looked like the boy he’d always seen in his reflection; instead he’d become a gangly, awkward stranger. And he’d come here to Master Dooku’s quarters to present himself to the individual who would decide if he was worthy to be a Jedi Knight—or not worthy.

  “Well?” Dooku raised one eyebrow. He seemed to stand three meters tall, looming over Qui-Gon like an obsidian wall. “Have you no response to my observation?”

  I’m not afraid. The denial surfaced in Qui-Gon’s mind. It was what he wanted to say, because it was what he wanted to be true.

  But it wasn’t true. Surely a Padawan wasn’t supposed to lie to his new Master.

  Qui-Gon admitted, “I am, Master.”

  “Why should you fear me?” Dooku said in his deepest, most intimidating voice, as though answering his own question.

  Think, Qui-Gon told himself. His fear was so obvious, so all-encompassing, that he could hardly understand where it came from. But he needed to find the truth within that fear.

  Finally he said, “I’m afraid of not becoming a Jedi, but that doesn’t make me afraid of you, Master. I’m afraid of failing. Of not being worthy.”

  “Of yourself,” Dooku said. “Of a future other than the one you want.”

  “Yes.” Qui-Gon’s fear deepened. Surely Master Dooku would realize he’d made a mistake, choosing someone so cowardly as Padawan.

  But then Dooku said, “Very wise.” When Qui-Gon looked up in surprise, his Master smiled—a distant smile, but a genuine one. “Most young apprentices would deny their fear. If they admitted it, they would almost certainly lack the self-knowledge you have shown.”

  I got it right? Qui-Gon’s amazement must’ve shown on his face, because Dooku shook his head in tolerant amusement.

  “You proved yourself honest today,” Dooku said, gesturing for Qui-Gon to rise to his feet. “You demonstrated insight. And you convinced me of your intelligence.”

  “Intelligence?” Qui-Gon straightened. Standing up only helped so much with his sense of intimidation; his head was at Dooku’s elbow level.

  “Yes, my Padawan.” Dooku’s amusement had a feline quality to it—sly and self-contained. “Anyone who begins to journey farther along the path of the Force should be afraid. The dangers are many. The struggle is eternal.”

  Qui-Gon wasn’t entirely sure what Master Dooku meant by “the struggle,” but he assumed it was something about always doing his best. That was the sort of thing the crèche masters always talked about.

  Before he could ask, Dooku gestured for Qui-Gon to follow him. “Come. There are many sections of our Temple that younglings never visit. Understanding our Temple more completely will help you better understand the Jedi Order.”

  The promise of finally seeing the whole Temple pushed every question out of Qui-Gon’s brain. He grinned at Dooku for the first time. “Yes, Master.�
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  Together they walked throughout the Temple—not all of it, because it was too large for anyone to see the whole of it in a day—but the most important parts, the ones Qui-Gon had always been most curious to see. Dooku showed him the Padawans’ sparring dojo, and let him take a look at the one for full Jedi Knights. He finally saw the Great Assembly Room, reserved for those rare times when virtually the entire Order met. Various meditation chambers were…well, not exciting, but at least of interest. Probably most other Padawans wouldn’t have found the arboretum thrilling, either, but Qui-Gon spent long minutes wandering through the trees, flowers, and ferns of a thousand different worlds while Dooku patiently watched.

  At day’s end, Master Dooku finally brought Qui-Gon to their last stop, the Jedi Archives. The new chief archivist, a woman named Jocasta Nu, welcomed Dooku with a familiarity that suggested they were friends. As she ushered them deeper into the vast, chambered room, she said, “It’s been a while since we’ve seen you.”

  “My interests change, from time to time,” Dooku replied. Qui-Gon wondered why Jocasta Nu frowned at that.

  They examined several holocrons of various eras, not to really study them—simply for Qui-Gon to learn his way around. His eye was caught by a particularly old one, so ancient its shape was unlike any of the others. He walked toward it and put one hand on its golden surface. “What is this one about?” he asked. “What centuries does it cover?”

  After he spoke he turned back to Dooku for the answer, and was shocked by the expression on his Master’s face. Dooku stared at the holocron almost as if…

  As if it were an enemy, Qui-Gon thought. But that made no sense.

  Dooku said, “That is a holocron of Jedi prophecies.”

  “Prophecies?” Qui-Gon had never heard of this before. “There are Jedi prophets?”

  “Not any longer. The ancient mystics sought undue knowledge of the future. It led them down dangerous paths. Those drawn too deeply into them were often…were tempted by the dark side.”

  Qui-Gon whispered, “The dark side?” He knew it was a thing all beings carried within them, a part of himself he would learn to guard against—the crèche masters had taught him all that. But it still sounded a little like some kind of ghost or monster, a mysterious thing that would leap out from the shadows to get you when you weren’t looking.

  “That is why we study prophecy no longer.” Abruptly, Dooku turned and began walking away, which meant Qui-Gon had to follow.

  “Master?” he ventured as he hurried to catch up. “Just wanting to know the future can lead you to the dark side?”

  “It takes more than that,” Dooku said. His dark eyes were unreadable.

  Many Jedi went on retreat for deeper contemplation, but the Temple possessed its own reserves of tranquility. Chambers on the higher levels had translucent windows open to the sunlight, where one could drink in the heat and radiance and utter quiet. On a lower level, a meditation path wove its way through a maze of stonework, inviting the mind to focus. Sensory deprivation pods for various species could be filled and sealed, for those who wanted to all but shed their physical forms and become pure spirit.

  Qui-Gon, however, felt steadiest when anchored to life. So he’d gone to the Temple gardens.

  He knelt beside a Felucian fern and stroked two fingers along its delicate blue-green fronds. They sprang back slightly from his touch—a sign of sensitivity, and therefore health. Breathing in deeply, he took in the soft green scent, imagining the oxygen flowing through his body.

  Through the Force, he reached out to the plant. Its presence was a delicate thing, conscious of nothing but peace.

  (The same could not be said of all plants. Qui-Gon still remembered the first time he’d come across a tree that was strong with the dark side; the shock had been tremendous. Master Dooku had shaken his head ruefully and said, “Darkness is a part of nature, too, Qui-Gon. Equally as fundamental as the light. Always remember this.”)

  I ought to have been one of the Temple gardeners, Qui-Gon thought. It was a thought he’d had before, though usually one that rose from frustration with the Jedi Council.

  His comm unit buzzed, and Master Billaba’s voice came through the unit. “Master Jinn, do I disturb you?”

  “Not at all.” The Council had spoken to him only yesterday. Were they already impatient for an answer? “How may I help you?”

  “There is a mission for you and your Padawan.” Qui-Gon frowned, but before he could reply, Billaba continued, “The timing is perhaps not ideal, but you’ve been requested.”

  “You’ve sparked my curiosity. Am I correct in assuming you won’t be giving me any more details until my Padawan and I show up for duty?”

  Billaba’s amusement shone through her voice. “You’re learning the Council’s ways, Master Jinn.”

  Force forbid, he thought—an automatic response, one born from the many conflicts he’d had with the Jedi Council in the past. That kind of thinking would have to change. “We’ll be in the Council Chambers as soon as possible.”

  “Not the Council Chambers,” she said, more somber now. “Chancellor Kaj’s office.”

  * * *

  —

  Chancellor Kirames Kaj had led the Senate for many years, and undoubtedly could’ve gone on for many more. Her light touch and congenial demeanor made her popular among both senators and the public at large. The easygoing nature that made the Togrutan chancellor so well liked also made her, quite possibly, the least power-hungry individual ever to occupy the office. Instead of running for reelection, she’d announced that next year she’d return to Shili and found an academy for the arts.

  To judge by the surroundings, Kaj’s mind was already more on her future than her past. Various tribute wreaths, holos, and trophies decorated every shelf and wall, each testament to another banquet or reception held in her honor. It seemed that not a single planet in the Republic wanted to miss honoring the chancellor upon her retirement.

  “Master Jinn,” Kaj said, taking a seat behind her broad desk, “a pleasure to see you again.”

  “The pleasure is mine.” He meant this, more or less. As politicians went, Kirames Kaj was quite endurable.

  “And your Padawan here, the name was—Kenobi, yes?” Kaj beamed. “How very good to meet you.”

  “Thank you, Chancellor.” Obi-Wan hesitated, clearly wanting to say something else but not knowing what would be appropriate.

  Kaj absently stroked one of her head-tails as one of the aide droids brought up a holo, which filled the room. It portrayed a vast spacescape, one that took in a sizable section of the Inner Rim, as well as the chief enemy of hyperspace traffic through that area, the Byrnum Maw. Glowing at the heart of it—leading directly through the maw—was a thick blue line marking a path with which Qui-Gon was unfamiliar. The line was labeled PIJAL HYPERSPACE CORRIDOR. A small trademark symbol beneath this label indicated that the corridor was protected by the ships and sensors of the Czerka Corporation, just like pretty much every other tricky hyperspace route.

  “They’ve found a path through the maw,” Qui-Gon surmised. “That’s been a goal for—what, decades?”

  “More like centuries.” Kaj gestured along the length of the hyperspace corridor. “Since a star went nebula and disrupted the old routes. But scientists have determined that two hyperspace anchors—one on the planet Pijal, and one on its moon—could together generate a field capable of stabilizing a central section of the maw. With that stabilized, several traffic pathways become possible. The worlds on those routes have been left behind, shut out of progress, for far too long. Now that can all change.”

  Qui-Gon nodded. “Your request for our help suggests that something threatens the new corridor.”

  “Indeed.”

  The chancellor’s aide droid swiftly magnified the holo to show the planet around which this hyperspace corridor bent. Info c
ubes floating near it indicated that Pijal was a temperate planet with numerous mountain ranges and caves—a small population for a place that had a relatively benign climate—and that its moon was nearly as large as Pijal itself. It was this moon to which the chancellor pointed.

  “Pijal is only now emerging from hundreds of years of isolationism,” Kaj said. “But terrorism is threatening all their progress. A lunar dissident group known as the Opposition is sabotaging the mining and agricultural efforts there. Bombing Czerka vessels. Doing anything and everything they can to undermine stability on Pijal.”

  “Toward what end?” Obi-Wan asked. Then his eyes went wide as he realized he’d dared to question the chancellor of the Republic. Qui-Gon stifled a smile.

  Kaj—not the sort to mind being spoken to by a Padawan—simply shrugged. “You’ll have to make sense of this one, because no one else has been able to. You see, the Opposition didn’t begin as a terrorist group. Apparently they were originally a…a performance art troupe.”

  Neither Qui-Gon nor Obi-Wan said anything for a long moment. Finally Qui-Gon managed, “You’re serious.”

  “The galaxy is big and strange,” Kaj said with a sigh. “Anyway, the Opposition would put on these political plays or erect vaguely rude statues overnight, that sort of thing. Their leader, a woman named Halin Azucca, apparently specialized in interpretive dance before she got into explosives. There wasn’t any one ideology at work in the Opposition, other than wanting to change the status quo and some vague talk about more representation for lunar citizens. But after the potential for the hyperspace corridor became clear, the Opposition became angrier. Bolder. They started bombing places—originally purely symbolic targets. Their violence has increased as the hyperspace corridor’s activation gets closer. In the past month they’ve gone after important government buildings, Czerka structures, even some of the temples. No lives have been lost yet, but it’s only a matter of time. And if the Opposition decides to target the hyperspace corridor itself, the damage could be tremendous.”