by Claudia Gray
He caught himself. He was focusing on the future rather than the present. The lecture he’d given Obi-Wan would have been better delivered to himself.
“What in the worlds is that?” Obi-Wan pointed to a small spherical vessel rising slowly from the planet in the direction of the closest shield generator. Probably its tiling had been pure white, long ago, but countless reentries into atmosphere had left gray charring around seams and edges.
“Didn’t you review the planetary report?” That was unlike Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon thought. “Those are the soulcraft. Ships that go back to the first settlers of this planet thousands of years ago. At some point, apparently, the local form of Force worship began urging pilgrims to travel into space periodically to experience the darkness and zero-gravity for themselves—so as to make them truly grateful for the beautiful planet they had. For some reason, circles and spheres tend to be sacred shapes on Pijal.”
“That’s a soulcraft?” Obi-Wan was practically sputtering. “But—of course I read the report, Master, I just—I can’t believe they’re still using ships that old.”
“I believe over time the soulcraft have gained a certain talismanic quality of their own. They’re valued because they’re ancient, not in spite of it.” Though Qui-Gon wondered how long such belief would last when—not if—one of these ships failed.
As though his thought had summoned it, a blue flare of plasma energy erupted from the soulcraft’s side.
“Blast!” Qui-Gon wheeled around to the data terminal. Radiation levels were terrifyingly high—plasma venting into space but not into the ship itself, not yet—
“It’s exploding.” Obi-Wan hurried to the navigator’s chair. “The ship finally failed?”
“The explosion is external,” the cruiser’s navigator said, gesturing toward the ice-blue haze of energy rippling into the space around the soulcraft. “That’s an incendiary device.”
A plasma bomb? Qui-Gon took a deep breath. Those were crude weapons, but powerful—used by attackers with few resources and no limits on cruelty. If the plasma fully penetrated the soulcraft, the deaths suffered by those within—
“The plasma explosion’s still external?” Qui-Gon asked. When the answer was a nod, he pointed toward the soulcraft. “Get us within ten klicks, immediately.”
“You can’t get any closer to that thing,” the navigator protested, meaning, I can’t. “You’ll fry yourself and everyone else on this ship!”
“Not if we act quickly.” Qui-Gon shucked his robe, preparing for what lay ahead. As his garment fell to the floor, Obi-Wan’s fell beside it. Some Padawans might’ve hesitated, but not his.
“You heard my Master,” Obi-Wan said to the navigator. “Take us in.”
I am a Padawan of the Jedi, Qui-Gon told himself as their shuttle drew closer to the forbidding black surface of Shurrupak. I’m good with my lightsaber. I’ve been apprenticed to Dooku for four months. I’m ready for battle.
Surely the Council agreed, or they wouldn’t have sent him here with his Master.
But he gripped his lightsaber hilt more firmly when the ship shuddered again. They’d come under heavy weapons fire four point three minutes ago, according to the ship’s chrono. Qui-Gon suspected the chrono was broken, though, because it felt much, much longer.
“Coming in for landing!” shouted Master Elio as the shuttle began the telltale shimmy that meant they’d hit atmosphere. “We’ll be at Primus Base within five minutes!”
From the pre-mission briefing, Qui-Gon knew that Primus Base wasn’t on the front line of battle. It was a whole three hundred kilometers away. But three hundred kilometers had seemed like a much bigger distance during the briefing than it did now.
Next to him, Master Dooku remained as tall and stoic as a tree. He was truly fearless in a way most Jedi could only appear to be. Instead of offering explicit support to Qui-Gon, he was providing an example to aspire to. Qui-Gon resolved to live up to that example if he could.
Assuming they didn’t get blown up.
The shuttle took one more burst of fire as it neared the ground, rocking it back and forth so that even the most experienced Jedi stumbled. Qui-Gon managed not to fall down, barely, but felt as if he’d only just gotten his balance when the shuttle trembled again. That was the feel of landfall.
When the door swung open, everyone hurried forward, splashing onto a beach at low tide, still puddled with water. The wet sand dragged at Qui-Gon’s boots, but he hurried to keep up with his Master’s long stride. Every few seconds, the echoing boom of battle sounded, and the horizon lit up, but he tried very hard not to hear or see.
He reached the border gate of Primus Base just as Dooku did. His Master was a veteran of many military campaigns, so Qui-Gon expected him to look calm. To his astonishment, when he looked up, Dooku was…smiling?
“Rael!” Dooku called in his sonorous voice. He marched forward, his dark-green cape rippling in the harsh Shurrupak wind, to greet the young man who stood before them: short for an adult, his black hair rumpled in a dozen directions, wearing a ragged cloak and boots that looked older than Dooku himself. Of course Qui-Gon knew the name Rael Averross—a famous lightsaber duelist, and Dooku’s first Padawan—but it couldn’t be the same Rael. This person had to be a refugee.
But Rael cheerfully called, “Master! About time you got here. You were on the verge of missin’ all the fun!”
“You always did enjoy combat more than you should.” Dooku’s amusement eclipsed his disapproval.
When they reached him, Rael quickly embraced Dooku—a gesture that startled Qui-Gon nearly as much as the fact that Dooku allowed it. “Seems like longer than five months since we’ve seen each other,” Rael said.
“You spent ten years seeing me nearly every day. I should’ve thought that would be enough.” This was what passed for humor with Dooku. “Meanwhile, I’ve taken a new apprentice—Qui-Gon Jinn.”
Qui-Gon nodded in greeting. Rael’s grin widened as he bent down to inspect his successor. “I’m finally taller than someone! About time.” Before Qui-Gon could feel embarrassed, though, Rael put his foot next to Qui-Gon’s own. “Okay, I see it now. You’re gonna outgrow me in no time. When the rest of you catches up to your feet, you’ll be as tall as our Master. Maybe taller. Dooku, someday you’re going to have to get used to not being the biggest guy in the room.”
Dooku shook his head, tolerant of teasing from Rael to a degree Qui-Gon would’ve believed impossible. Or maybe Dooku was only focusing on the battle to come, because he strode away across the dark-green Shurrupak sands to confer with the nearby generals. In the distance, through the fog, Qui-Gon could make out stun cannon tanks and troop transports. The horizon lit up again with weapons fire, and Qui-Gon shivered.
Rael put one hand on his shoulder. If he comforted Qui-Gon, the embarrassment might be worse than the fear.
Instead, Rael said, “Master Dooku can seem stiff sometimes. Know why that is?” Qui-Gon shook his head no, and slowly Rael’s grin widened. “That’s because he is stiff. Like a plank. Even in his sleep. How does he do that?”
Qui-Gon couldn’t help laughing. “I don’t know.”
“Never figured it out, either.” Rael straightened, now addressing Qui-Gon as an equal. “Dooku’s a hard guy to get to know. Eventually you’re gonna feel like you can tell him anything…but it’s gonna be a while, right? Well, listen. Sometimes, a Master’s previous Padawans help out the newer ones, if they get the chance. It looks like we do. So any questions you have that you might not feel comfortable asking Dooku yet—you bring ’em to me. We can spar, too, if you want.”
The prospect of fighting a dueling expert like Rael Averross would’ve seemed intimidating at any other time. With his first battle looming, however, Qui-Gon couldn’t worry about much else. “I’d like that.”
“Good. C’mon, then, let’s talk to the generals.” Rael made it s
ound like a natural thing for a twelve-year-old to do.
Qui-Gon felt as though Rael Averross were the bridge—the link between the Padawan he was and the Jedi Knight he so desperately wished to be. The journey would be easier, now that he had a friend to show him the path.
Princess Fanry felt frozen to her throne. She could not bear to watch the horror playing out on the screen in front of her—but she couldn’t look away, either. She didn’t deserve to look away while her people suffered.
While they died.
“This is turning into a nightmare,” she said, her throat tight with tears. “I never thought it would come to this.”
“Why not?” snapped Minister Orth, a tall, rangy woman whose salt-and-pepper curls were pinned haphazardly atop her head. It was the only haphazard thing about Orth, whose dark brocade dress was stitched tightly from ankles to throat. “Why wouldn’t Halin Azucca follow things through to their natural conclusion? This was inevitable. There’s nothing the Opposition won’t stoop to.”
Fanry braced herself. You will be queen, she thought. You must not be weak. Pijal doesn’t need a weak queen.
Instead she looked up at tall, grave Captain Deren, who hadn’t left her side since the latest report. His expression remained calm; only his eyes betrayed his sadness. To her he said, “The Leverage reports they’ll be on the scene soon. Supervisor Col has taken charge personally. We may yet avoid any loss of life.”
Will Czerka be the savior of the day? Fanry wondered. I should’ve ordered more patrols, so my forces could rescue these people themselves…
“Look, Your Serene Highness.” One of the technicians shyly pointed to a blur at the edge of the screen. “It looks as if one or two other ships are already coming to help. There’s a transport—a big one, a Consular-class cruiser—”
Instantly Fanry knew what that meant. Her pulse leapt as she turned to Deren and whispered, “The Jedi!”
* * *
—
“Don’t be afraid.” Dooku’s voice rang out over even the howling winds of Shurrupak. Qui-Gon clung to the carbon-fiber-rope riggings of the Shurrupakan ship, salt spray stinging his face and hands, as they rounded the cape to approach the battle from an angle the enemy wouldn’t expect. “They’re shielded against skycraft and energy weapons. Not against seafaring vessels!”
He made this sound majestic, courageous, brilliant—nothing like the last-minute, last-ditch attempt it actually was. Qui-Gon took a deep breath and stared up at the stars. Big mistake. The stars weren’t moving, and his stomach was, and the queasiness that swept through him made him feel weak. It was as though the fear of hanging on to the rigging was doing the work for him, more than his will.
“C’mon, hang in there,” called Rael, who clung to the rigging just behind him. “You’ll be all right, kid. The first battle’s always the worst.”
“It’s not the battle I’m afraid of!” Qui-Gon protested. “It’s the water.”
“—the water?”
Despite the chill of the seawater drenching his clothes and hair, Qui-Gon’s face flushed warm with embarrassment. “I can’t swim!” Now Rael Averross—the Padawan before him, the stronger one, the better one—would laugh at him, and no bravery in combat would ever eclipse Qui-Gon’s shame.
Rael didn’t laugh. “Don’t worry,” he called over the roar of the waves. “You fall in, I’ll levitate you out. And after we’ve won this thing, tomorrow, I’ll teach you to swim.”
He made the victory sound inevitable. Tonight, battle—and then came tomorrow. It erased Qui-Gon’s fear faster than anything else could’ve done—
* * *
—
“I’ve never taught you to swim, have I, Obi-Wan?”
Obi-Wan looked up from his space-suit fittings, confused. “No, Master. But I know how—well, a little bit.”
“We’ll practice,” Qui-Gon insisted as he fastened his own space suit. “Every Jedi should be able to swim like a Mon Calamari.”
Obi-Wan paused, and Qui-Gon could almost hear his Padawan’s thoughts: So why didn’t you teach me before, and when exactly are we going to practice? After you join the Council? These were excellent questions, but Obi-Wan was too good to ask them aloud. “We’re approaching the soulcraft, Master.”
He’s making the transition to no longer thinking of me as Master, Qui-Gon told himself. Before you join the Council, you’d better adjust as well. “All right. Seal up.”
Once they were encased in their space suits, Qui-Gon hit the panel that cycled the air lock. As the room depressurized, he double-checked the energy shield and personal thrusters at his belt: fully charged. He and Obi-Wan exchanged glances—this is it—before the external shield dropped, exposing them both to deep space. Qui-Gon pushed off into the void and, as soon as he was clear of their transport, hit the accelerator.
The energy shield shimmered greenish around him as he was propelled forward through space—more like a ship, or a missile, than a man. Most sentients couldn’t master the muscle control to remain functional within a thruster-accelerator shield; even many Jedi found it difficult. But over many years, Qui-Gon had gotten the knack.
(Obi-Wan had mastered it in only a few weeks. There were skills no one could easily teach; a person possessed them, or didn’t, and Obi-Wan possessed this.)
An accelerator shield essentially sheathed its wearer within an energy blast. The toughest part, usually, was to deactivate the acceleration in time to steer away from a collision that would be as destructive to the wearer as to its target. However, plasma fire interacted with accelerator shields in unusual ways—ways that at this moment were very useful to Qui-Gon Jinn.
The interaction would also be very painful, but not for long. That didn’t matter. He simply needed to mentally prepare for it.
As the soulcraft grew closer, it seemed to expand in Qui-Gon’s vision until it had almost erased space around it. The instant the surrounding blackness had disappeared, he braced himself for impact, calling on the Force for strength.
It hit him. It owned him. Every bone, every cell, every atom of his being seemed to resonate on a different frequency from every other, painful and strange. But it lasted only a moment. Then he was able to steady himself against the hull of the soulcraft. Qui-Gon looked up to see that Obi-Wan, too, was in position. Plasma fire rippled around them, a sickly green haze of light that seemed to be writhing. Horrifying as it looked, the writhing was a good sign. The accelerator shields had set into motion a chain reaction that would eventually dull the plasma to nothingness.
Meanwhile, he and Obi-Wan could help the process along. Already Obi-Wan had his field laser in his hand, a thin white beam carving up the plasma as though it were a gelatin, sending small blobs scattering into space where they would soon harmlessly dissipate. Qui-Gon got to work as well, hacking through the stuff as quickly as possible. The soulcraft had begun an emergency descent toward Pijal, but at this rate they’d finish their work long before the ship hit the scorching resistance of the atmosphere.
If we’re so far from the atmosphere, why is the soulcraft already outlined in light?
The faint glow around the spherical soulcraft’s horizon sent horror jolting through him. Another plasma fire, Qui-Gon thought, his skin prickling as his hair stood on end. A second incendiary device. Separate from the first. Still fully active.
How much good could his field laser be against that? It didn’t matter. Qui-Gon had to handle this himself if he could; the risk was too great for Obi-Wan to be exposed to it. First he attempted to reach out with the Force, but plasma responded poorly to such commands. Next he reached for the magnetic tethers that would allow him to move across the hull, toward the second plasma fire.
But as he did so, a small, distant shape darted into range and fired a single antiplasma charge at the soulcraft. The charge hit the second plasma fire, dousing it to darkness. Vibrations ri
ppled through the ship again at the impact, but the magnetic tethers kept him in place. Qui-Gon’s relief shifted into curiosity as the unknown vessel—a light freighter, he thought—darted away.
Who could their savior have been? Why didn’t they want credit for what they’d done?
Maybe the mystery rescuers wanted only what Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan wanted: the safety of those inside.
* * *
—
Pax Maripher’s voice was sharp enough to cut through a Mandalorian shield. “What in the blazing fires of Lola Sayu was that?”
“That was an antiplasma charge.” From her place in the pilot’s seat, Rahara Wick pushed the engines to the max, making sure they’d be safely hidden behind the moon long before any other ships took notice. “I would’ve thought you’d know an antiplasma charge when you saw one.”
“I am not addled. Of course I’m capable of recognizing an antiplasma charge. What I don’t recognize is why you would insist on our anonymity, for protection from Czerka Corporation, and then do something almost guaranteed to attract attention? Something risky? Something utterly unnecessary?”
Rahara inhaled deeply. She reminded herself that the Meryx was Pax’s ship, not hers, so as long as she was aboard, she had to try to get along.
But that didn’t mean never doing the right thing.
“Look.” She stabbed at the screen with one finger. “Their manifest wasn’t locked. So this was here for everyone to see.”
The screen read: 15 passengers, 37 items of sentient property.
“That means Czerka property.” Rahara felt her throat beginning to tighten. No, she couldn’t tell Pax all of this again and hope that this time he got it. She’d just tear up, and displays of emotion weren’t the way to get through to Pax. “Let’s get this straight. If I see people like that, in that kind of trouble, and there’s something I can do to help them, I’m going to do it. If you can’t accept that, then find yourself another pilot.”
