Master & Apprentice (Star Wars)

by Claudia Gray

  Fanry seemed to realize she was being a bit bloodthirsty, because she smiled impishly and made the next question a joke. “Never?”

  He smiled back as he shook his head. “Not ever.”

  A royal ship found itself unable to take off when a dozen green-clad people perched on its hull, then tethered themselves in place with magnetic bonds. One of them was Halin Azucca herself, her hair braided into tight knots she wore like a crown. Security droids arrived quickly, but at their first appearance, the protesters activated personal flight packs and managed to escape.

  * * *

  —

  Pijal had been building a magnificent Hall of Assembly to house its new representative government, an entirely spherical structure with a mirrored surface, which would appear almost invisible until sundown, when the last rays of light would make it burn like another star. Security cams captured the moment late at night when the mirrors turned cloudy, then totally gray, then crumbled to dust. Only later did investigators determine that nanotech had been planted inside, and had devoured the building’s framework from within.

  * * *

  —

  Panic had broken out one night when the moon of Pijal rose in the sky—no longer golden-green but a stark, ominous red. The Opposition turned out to have extensively seeded the moon’s atmosphere with a harmless chemical that would disperse within a few days, but ensured the moon would remain crimson the whole time. On the next morning, an ominous message was discovered painted on one of the larger temples in the capital: CAN YOU FORGET US NOW?

  * * *

  —

  A droid rolled into a Czerka facility, seen on various security cams, until it suddenly exploded. The resulting flames burned so hot they were blue in the night. Had any living being been within the facility at that late hour, they would surely have been killed.

  * * *

  —

  “And they couldn’t have known the facility would be completely empty,” Qui-Gon pointed out as he shut off the holos of known Opposition actions. Deren had been reluctant to share them—his paranoia about protecting Fanry had grown. Qui-Gon had insisted on having them, but had waited until late in the evening to review them with Obi-Wan, when they could be alone.

  Obi-Wan looked thoughtful. “No, they couldn’t. Anyone might have decided to return to work—or a servant might’ve been forced to stay behind for some reason. Whoever did this was willing to risk taking lives.”

  “So it would seem,” Qui-Gon replied. He stroked his beard, considering the possibilities.

  “Chancellor Kaj told us the Opposition’s violence was escalating,” Obi-Wan said, “but the behavior seems more erratic to me. Not something that could be plotted on a line.”

  “The various incidents are—wildly discordant. Nor do they follow a straight chronology. Some of the more harmless incidents occur after the bombings began.”

  “Maybe some of the ‘pranks’ were programmed before the violence escalated,” Obi-Wan said. Then his eyes widened. “Or maybe there’s not one single head of the Opposition, but many. Halin Azucca could just be the one leader we know about. There could be other cells, both more and less violent. All of them working toward one cause, but in very different ways.”

  “A valid theory, my Padawan.” Qui-Gon still sensed there was more to the puzzle—but he felt certain the shift in pattern was important. “Rael considers all of this to be mindless violence. Pure terrorism. I suspect that’s why he didn’t recognize this pattern himself.”

  Obi-Wan said nothing. Qui-Gon was relieved. Whenever Obi-Wan doubted Rael, the impulse to defend his old friend strengthened. That impulse interfered with Qui-Gon’s judgment.

  * * *

  —

  Rahara objected to Pax’s plan. Sometimes Pax felt as though she objected to any and all fun, purely on principle. This time, however, he understood her concern.

  But he still intended to ignore it.

  “You want to deal with Czerka,” she said, arms folded, as he dressed for the big meeting to come. “They’re scum. No, worse. They’d have to work their way up to scum.”

  Pax examined his best coat—blue, oversized, velvet lapels—then regretfully laid it aside. Pijali citizens were so boring in their attire. “Sadly for the galaxy, the scum often winds up with a great deal of money.”

  “Blood money,” Rahara insisted. “They’ve made untold trillions, over untold centuries, largely through slave labor. Czerka’s money is tainted, forever.”

  “I quite understand your point of view.”

  “Then why—how can you be willing to do business with the company who—”

  Her words trailed away. It didn’t matter. Pax knew what she meant.

  “Czerka treated you abominably,” he said, settling on a black cape that looked rather dashing, if he did say so himself. “Their slavery practices are worthy of the deepest contempt. The company deserves not one chit of its gargantuan wealth. Which is why I consider it my moral duty to deprive them of as much of that wealth as I can.”

  Rahara tilted her head. “You mean…you’re going to scam them.”

  “It will appear to be an honest mistake.” Pax gestured toward the pile of kohlen crystals he’d gathered together. “So few people can tell the difference between these and true kyber. It could take them quite a while to figure it out—long enough for us to have left Pijal, even. So I foresee no negative repercussions for us, only for the vipers of Czerka Corporation.”

  “…I guess I can see the good in that.” One corner of her mouth lifted, not quite a smile. Still, it brightened Pax’s mood considerably. “But be careful.”

  “Of course.” Pax gathered the crystals into a small antigrav crate. He’d be able to fit this aboard his single-pilot craft. “I know perfectly well what Czerka is capable of.”

  So he said, and so he believed, the entire way to the nearest Czerka office. Naturally he couldn’t bring the Meryx on this errand, but he had a single-pilot craft, which he’d dubbed the Facet, stashed in the hold for just such occasions. Really, he thought, he ought to take it out more. He ought to improve his flying, if only to keep up with Rahara.

  After he’d landed the Facet, gone to the guard station, and gained admittance, however, he was walked through the work yard. There he saw a group of enslaved people in their gray coveralls, at hard labor.

  The labor was far from the worst that could be assigned, nor was it the worst Pax had ever personally witnessed. They were merely polishing and cleaning an elegant personal craft, probably the supervisor’s. So it wasn’t the nature of the work that struck him.

  It was that all the workers were children.

  The oldest human couldn’t have been nine years old yet. Pax wasn’t as good at estimating the ages of Ithorians, but the one scrubbing hard with a cloth was the tiniest he’d ever seen. The Wookiee looked older, though it was hard to determine his height; he hung his head so sadly. One of his hands had been shaved to insert the Czerka tag, and the fur hadn’t grown back yet. This child had been enslaved for only a few days.

  Rahara was even younger than this, Pax thought as he followed the security guard, guiding his crate. Suddenly he wasn’t sure he’d be able to put on a smile for any Czerka officials—even if it was in the noble cause of ripping them off.

  He suspected he didn’t put on a very convincing performance for the sector supervisor, but it hardly mattered. As soon as Meritt Col opened the crate to see the crystals—what, as far as she knew, was a treasure trove of kyber—her attention was purely focused there.

  “You say these are found extensively throughout this region of the moon?” Col held one crystal up to the light. It shone as bright an orange as the skies of Abafar.

  “Indeed, Supervisor Col.” Keep it cool. Keep it steady. Pretend you’re G-3PO. “I was so excited at first, but an independent trader like me—how am I supposed t
o do business with the Jedi Order?”

  “It’s very insightful of you,” Col said, smiling not at Pax but at the crystals. “Few independent traders would be as ready to face their own inadequacies.”

  Inadequacies? Pax held on to his temper, barely. Half of him wanted to explain all the ingenious ways he’d already planned to work with the Jedi Order, had this stuff proved to be true kyber. Fortunately, the other half won out.

  Ultimately he made a deal for a large sum—not enough for him and Rahara to retire, but more than enough to upgrade the ship and take a long vacation. Pax had considered negotiating for more, but the bigger Czerka’s payout was, the more suspicious they would be of the person who’d sold them a useless box of kohlen.

  You see? he thought as he flew away in the Facet. It was worth sticking around for a while, Jedi or no Jedi. You’ve pulled more of a profit on this than you will from the Alderaan haul.

  All very true. But he couldn’t look at the credits without hearing Rahara’s voice whispering in his head.

  Blood money.

  * * *

  —

  “No comms, Master?” Obi-Wan felt naked without the comm device he’d worn at his belt as long as he could remember. “What if someone needs to reach us?”

  “The only individuals who could need to urgently talk to us will be on the Grand Hunt, too,” Qui-Gon said. “Besides, it’s custom to leave behind all advanced technological devices. Apparently, centuries ago, people used them to cheat.”

  To Obi-Wan it sounded primitive to the point of barbarity, but following local traditions and habits was encouraged, so he resisted the urge to go back for the comm device. Instead he and Qui-Gon marched across the rolling ground toward the stables. High grasses swayed and parted for them as they went. In the distance, he could see torches blazing—actual torches—against the deep purple of late sunset. Musicians had begun to play, and more and more people were headed toward the starting ground.

  Qui-Gon gave him an appraising glance. “You haven’t ridden much up until now, have you, Padawan?”

  “No, Master. But it doesn’t look so difficult.”

  “Depends on your mount.” Qui-Gon looked amused. “Just remember, riding a living thing is different from riding a ship or speeder. The Force binds you together. You can use that.”

  Although Obi-Wan had looked the creatures up beforehand, he was still taken aback by his first glimpse of a varactyl. Its scarlet feathers glimmered iridescently in the torchlight, and it pawed at the ground, eager to begin. They were huge—and when he thought about trying to get atop one, they seemed even huger—

  “Here you go,” Qui-Gon said, a roguish smile on his face. He patted the side of one varactyl, which chirruped at him. “It’s all ready for you, yes?” When the attendant nodded, Qui-Gon motioned toward the saddle. “Why don’t you see if you can get up there?”

  His Master was enjoying his confusion—not meanly, because that wasn’t Qui-Gon’s way, but that didn’t make it less irritating. Obi-Wan tried to ignore Qui-Gon and any other person who was watching, to think only about the varactyl…

  And then he felt it. The beast’s soul, simpler and purer than that of a sentient, yet still intelligent in its way. When it cocked its head to study him, Obi-Wan realized this could not be a matter of his mastering the varactyl; instead, they would have to meet as equals.

  He put one hand on the varactyl’s neck, stroking the feathers. It chirruped again, and the end of its tail flicked once…from excitement, Obi-Wan thought. Perhaps it was looking forward to the hunt as much as any of the humans were. Through the Force he sent back his own dawning enthusiasm for the event.

  The varactyl ruffled its feathers, then crouched low on the ground, until its belly lay in the grass. That let Obi-Wan easily swing up into the saddle and take the reins. Rising to its feet, the varactyl chirruped happily. They were friends now, Obi-Wan realized—friends who were about to have a lot of fun together.

  “Well done,” Qui-Gon said. His expression was a mixture of amusement and wonder. “Very well done indeed.”

  Obi-Wan leaned down to whisper in the varactyl’s ear. “He says you’ve done well.” It thumped the ground with its tail, which he instinctively knew was a good sign.

  Was it possible riding might be even more fun than flying?

  Applause, muffled through gloves of shimmersilk and velvet, made him look up. Two handlers were leading out an unusual droid—a modified crab droid, from the looks of it. Was it of Czerka manufacture? Its dark surface made it all but invisible in the encroaching dusk; soon only the blue and white lights on its many-jointed legs would betray its place.

  “The prey,” Obi-Wan said.

  Qui-Gon—who’d managed to get on his own varactyl, if not quite so gracefully—nodded. “Thousands of years ago, of course, they hunted live game. That practice was abandoned long ago.”

  “That’s a relief,” Obi-Wan said. “I don’t know if I could’ve killed a living creature merely for sport, or helped anyone else do it, either.”

  “Don’t be too relieved.” Qui-Gon sounded amused. “The main motivation for hunting a droid rather than an animal was increasing the level of challenge. A droid has defenses and resources no living creature could ever claim.”

  More applause heralded the arrival of Princess Fanry. Her varactyl’s feathers were all tipped with white, which made it the most striking of all the beasts. Obi-Wan wondered if it had been chosen for its appearance alone, or whether it was fast, too. Already he wanted his varactyl to win.

  Fanry’s riding habit was plain in Pijali style, a sandy color of no particular note, but with wide sleeves and a shorter hem that revealed the brilliant-green underdress beneath. The servant girl Cady walked alongside her, carrying a basket that seemed to be piled high with whatever luxuries the princess might desire during the course of the night. Fanry’s expression was more serious than he’d ever seen it, even when discussing the Opposition attacks.

  Is that a sign that she’s frivolous, and cares for nothing but her amusements? Obi-Wan wondered. Or is it a sign of how important this hunt is on Pijal?

  More applause—and cheers—as Rael Averross rode up on his varactyl. He held up one hand, simultaneously acknowledging the crowd and hushing them. The man’s rugged riding gear contrasted less with his shaggy hair and unshaven face than the regent’s robes did; this was the first time Obi-Wan thought he’d seen Rael fully in his element. Rael’s lopsided grin suggested he enjoyed this even more than he let on, and he let on a fair bit.

  Obi-Wan’s varactyl ruffled its feathers. “The others are larger than you, I know,” he murmured. “But that means you’re faster. We’ll capture the prey. Wait and see.”

  But there was more happening here than the Grand Hunt. Princess Fanry was in danger—from someone on the inside, someone who might be on this hunt. If anyone tried to hurt her, that person became his new prey.

  “Assemble!” called the herald, and the riders and varactyls all took their positions. Wordlessly, Obi-Wan steered away from Qui-Gon, to the other edge of the crowd; the farther apart they were, the more ground they could cover. By now the sky was almost purely dark, and the torchlight seemed to blaze brighter. The smell of fresh-cut grass and damp ground filled the air. Obi-Wan felt his varactyl tense under him, and the energy was catching. He could see it in everyone around him—Captain Deren, flanking the princess, was smiling broadly, the only time Obi-Wan had ever glimpsed that. Even Minister Orth’s hair was down, and she’d tied a scarf around her neck, maybe so it could ripple behind her in the wind.

  The horns blew once. Obi-Wan seized the reins tighter as his mount stamped its feet.

  Twice. Everyone leaned forward in their saddles. Beneath the murmur of activity, Obi-Wan could hear Averross chuckling softly with anticipation.

  Three times. Go!

  The varactyl leapt forward at
the moment Obi-Wan wished him to; he didn’t think he’d made a move. Already the Force had tied them together, and now he knew that for the varactyl, running was the greatest joy imaginable. So he leaned in, letting his ride choose their speed, but keeping them close to Princess Fanry.

  “There it is!” the princess cried. A flickering of light had betrayed the droid’s location, in a thicket farther up the nearby hill. Fanry’s varactyl broke from the others, galloping over a trench. Some of the other varactyls balked, but Obi-Wan’s took the jump effortlessly. He didn’t see Qui-Gon or Averross make it over, but in only minutes he sighted them atop their varactyls at the far side of the hunting party.

  As darkness had deepened, the automatic sensors on the varactyl harnesses had begun to turn a pale shade of purple, outlining the beasts’ forms, painting their feathers more brightly, and casting eerie lights on the riders. It felt almost like being in a primitive simulator, Obi-Wan thought, except that no simulator could possibly match this. The cool air that smelled of conifers, the workings of the varactyl’s muscles that could be felt even through the saddle, and most of all the thrill that couldn’t be experienced in mere fantasy. Only reality.

  Another trench, this one deeper and muddier than the last. Once again, Fanry soared effortlessly over it. More of the varactyls shied from this trench, growing skittish long before they even reached it, but Obi-Wan reached through the Force to reassure his beast. If you can’t make the jump, I won’t make you try. If you can, though, don’t hold back.

  His varactyl’s answer came when he bounded across the trench without so much as a pause.

  Obi-Wan laughed out loud. Finally, he’d be the one sharing adventures with his friends.

  It must have been tremendous, back in more primitive times. To know that their survival depended upon this, to race ahead on creatures far less tame than the one he rode now, to see monarchs genuinely desperate to protect their right to the throne.