Master & Apprentice (Star Wars)

by Claudia Gray

  “Yeah,” Rael said. “She deserves it. Let’s go.”

  Qui-Gon could only watch as Rael offered his arm to the Czerka supervisor and walked away.

  After the capital dome event, the palace turned chilly—in a way that had nothing to do with drafts or the sharp winds from the sea. Princess Fanry herself seemed oblivious to any strife, but Rael Averross’s rage had shifted from hot to cold. From his long experience with Rael, Qui-Gon knew this was a dangerous shift.

  If he didn’t need me to ratify the Governance Treaty in two days, Qui-Gon thought, Rael would throw us out of the palace tonight.

  And surely Rael suspected that Qui-Gon now hoped not to ratify that treaty.

  Meeting with Obi-Wan in the palace library afterward only confirmed his worst fears. “These are the ‘official’ census results,” his Padawan said, bringing up the charts on a datapad screen. “But by going into local census records, I was able to pull other sets of numbers—which I suspect are more accurate. It turns out Halin Azucca was wrong about twenty-five percent of Pijali citizens living on the moon—it’s closer to thirty percent.”

  Although Obi-Wan spoke in a low voice, every word echoed slightly in the cavernous, marble-tiled library. The room showed signs of infrequent use—dusty windowpanes, out-of-date data solids, no resident droids to speak of—but it was hard not to feel paranoid that someone might be spying on them. Rael Averross, Halin Azucca, the mysterious blackguards: All of them would have their reasons for wanting to eavesdrop on the Jedi, and for planning to intervene if they didn’t like what they heard.

  Besides, there was still a traitor in their midst.

  Qui-Gon scratched his beard, as he often did when deep in thought. “In other words, this treaty gives the vote to seventy percent of the people of the Pijal system, while nearly disenfranchising the other thirty percent.”

  “Exactly. And that doesn’t even count those they’ve enslaved.” Obi-Wan pressed the datapad to bring up holographic data. “As for the role Czerka Corporation plays in Pijal, everything we’ve been told is true. Averross didn’t start the process of allowing Czerka to take over so many parts of the government—they’ve been here for generations—but he definitely accelerated it. And yes, the phrase about the sun preserving the moon turns out to be legally binding in a very permanent sense. The Governance Treaty would set Czerka’s monopoly here in stone.”

  “I can understand why Averross wouldn’t know the traditional power of that phrase. What I can’t understand is why he let anyone else draft the constitution, much less anyone from Czerka. And yet he did it out of loyalty to the princess.” Qui-Gon still felt guilt about the many failures he’d had as Obi-Wan’s Master…but at least he hadn’t smothered him in falsehoods, as Rael had Fanry. The very acts Rael thought were for her benefit were the ones that would mire her rule and her planet in corruption.

  Obi-Wan’s voice broke his reverie. “How do we proceed, Master?”

  “We begin by contacting the Jedi Council,” Qui-Gon said. How odd, to think that someday soon he would be the one other Jedi contacted for advice. That his judgment would supersede that of the individuals who were on the scene, actually dealing with the problems at hand. “I’ll handle that myself. You get some rest. It was a hard day for you.”

  “I’m still shaking dust out of my clothes,” Obi-Wan confessed. “A bath has never sounded so good.”

  He could joke about nearly dying in a sinkhole, not even six hours after the event. Qui-Gon once again realized what a fine Padawan he’d had, and what a shame it was they’d failed to get on.

  Just before Obi-Wan reached the door, Qui-Gon called, “Padawan?” Obi-Wan half turned to listen as Qui-Gon continued, “Sorry to stick you with yet more library duty.”

  He was answered with a broad smile. “Compared with clinging to a log for dear life, research isn’t half bad.”

  * * *

  —

  What was evening for the palace of Pijal turned out to be the middle of the night for the Jedi Temple. Only one member was available to speak immediately, but it was the one member whose judgment was most likely to be final.

  “Troubling, this is,” Yoda said. “To Chancellor Kaj, I must speak.”

  Of course—Kaj would’ve reviewed the treaty. But she wouldn’t have understood the full meaning of that ritual phrase, and so hadn’t seen the trouble it would cause. “Do you think she’ll withdraw the treaty? Or at least ensure amendments?”

  Yoda’s ears drooped. “Difficult to say. Ready to retire, the chancellor is. Surrounded by planetary ministers, corporate interests, and others who desire her influence in the final days of her rule. Complications in this matter will not be easily brought to her attention.”

  “Something must be done,” Qui-Gon said. “I cannot in good conscience represent the Republic at the ceremony, not unless the treaty is changed.”

  “Careful, Qui-Gon.” Yoda’s holographic image blurred momentarily as the tiny Jedi Master adjusted himself in his bowl chair. “Jeopardize the hyperspace corridor, you must not.”

  “The hyperspace…? Master Yoda, forgive me, but are you putting the profit of corporations ahead of the people of Pijal?” Qui-Gon had long thought the Council was in danger of losing its way, but this was colder than he would’ve imagined possible.

  Yoda pulled himself upright, ears rising. “Serve planets long cut off, this corridor will. Planets struggling with poverty and famine. Will you save Pijal at the cost of their lives? Is this how you will serve the Force?”

  “Forgive me. I spoke in haste.” And, Qui-Gon knew, in repressed anger at Yoda’s no vote against him. That was unworthy of them both, and he strove to set the feeling aside. “However, the essential problem remains. We cannot neglect others to save Pijal, but in turn, we cannot neglect Pijal to save others.”

  “Reason with Averross, you cannot,” Yoda said in a tone that suggested long experience. “This assignment—we thought to help him. Always he has felt himself to be alone. To be judged and found wanting. Thought we that as regent, he would struggle no more for status. His pride would be fed. Instead, it has only fueled his weaknesses.”

  Qui-Gon thought again of the laughing young man who had stood by him before he went into his first battle. At the time, Rael Averross had seemed like the bravest, best Jedi Knight the Order could produce. Qui-Gon had been too young to see the cracks in the bravado—the pain that all Dooku’s guidance and all Rael’s accomplishments had never been able to erase. “That he would effectively sell citizens into slavery—”

  “Grievous, this is,” Yoda agreed.

  Into Qui-Gon’s mind came the echo of Rahara Wick: What’s the point of having a Republic in the first place?

  “We should put an end to it,” he said.

  Yoda shook his head. “Not ours to decide, the fate of the treaty is—”

  “Not the treaty. Slavery.” Qui-Gon folded his hands in front of him, allowing the robes to obscure them—the most formal way in which a Jedi could address another. “Why do we allow this barbarism to flourish? The Republic could use its influence to promote abolition in countless systems where the practice flourishes. How can we fail to do this?”

  Yoda remained silent for a few moments before saying, “Know of the planet Uro, do you? Devour their weakest children, they do.”

  “…they’re arachnids, whose instincts are unstoppable.”

  “What of Byss?” When Qui-Gon shook his head no, Yoda said, “When their elderly grow too old to regenerate, beat them to death, the Abyssin do, to conserve their resources.”

  Qui-Gon’s patience began to wear thin. “This isn’t about imposing human ethics on nonhuman species. This is something humans do to one another, an atrocity we should put an end to.”

  “We? Not the chancellor, not the Galactic Senate, not even the people of the Republic, but the Jedi?” Yoda thumped his g
imer stick on the floor. “Want to rule, do you? Dangerous this is, in one who would join the Council. Dangerous it is in any Jedi.”

  Qui-Gon knew all of this. On one level, he accepted the truth of it. On the other—“If we don’t stand for the right, what do we do? Why do we exist?”

  “Many ways there are of serving the right,” Yoda replied. “We work within our mandates, and there do as much good as we can. To do otherwise, to substitute our judgment for that of the Republic, is to repeat the mistakes of the past.”

  So instead we make different mistakes in the present? Qui-Gon kept this to himself. A galactic crusade against slavery beyond the reaches of the Republic would need to be larger than one angry Jedi Knight. But enslavement here on Pijal…that was within his mandate. And it would not stand.

  He said only, “You’ll talk to the chancellor as soon as possible?”

  Yoda nodded. “Well you have done, to reveal the shortcomings of the treaty.”

  Praise from Yoda was rare, and Qui-Gon tried to take satisfaction in it.

  Yet it was difficult for him to go to sleep that night.

  * * *

  —

  He stood in the Celestial Chalice, the curved amphitheater to the ancient gods within the Pijali palace. This was the place for the treaty ceremony, and everything was about to begin.

  Fanry walked toward him, her dress shining white, her brilliant red hair hanging free, her clothing all the more vivid against the dark-blue-tiled floor of the Chalice—

  —and everything went mad, turned into a jumble Qui-Gon couldn’t comprehend. People screamed. Minister Orth pushed roughly through the crowd, toward the altar. Rael shouted, “Fanry, no!” Qui-Gon brought up his lightsaber, ready to strike—but at what? At whom? Something had to be done—

  * * *

  —

  Qui-Gon opened his eyes. He lay in his bed, far from the Celestial Chalice. It felt as though he had traveled through time and back again. The events yet to come were more real to him than the sheets, the mattress, the sound of his own breath.

  Another vision granted by the Force, he thought. No. More of the same vision. Another angle. A deeper look.

  Maybe. Or maybe he was only dreaming. There was no way to tell—or was there?

  He put on his robe and hurried out into the palace corridors. This late at night, they were utterly deserted, save for one astromech burbling along the floor on its errands. Qui-Gon’s feet, still bare, were chilled by the marble floors, and when he went by the windows, he heard the soft rushing of the tides.

  During their first day on Pijal, Rael had talked Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan through the details of the ceremony, gesturing toward two large, plain wooden doors at the end of the royal reception hall. Those doors opened onto a tunnel, which led directly to the Celestial Chalice. They were opened only when the monarch went to the Chalice for one of the momentous ceremonies that took place only two or three times in a reign.

  Luckily, the hinges were kept oiled.

  As he walked into the tunnel, two sentry droids with Czerka logos scanned him. They weren’t programmed to ask questions, only to recognize previously approved individuals and attack all others. Qui-Gon felt relieved he’d already been entered into the system…and that Rael Averross’s temper hadn’t led to his deletion. Yet.

  The tunnel was dark, illuminated only by a few candledroids spaced far apart. But everything the tunnel lacked in visibility, it provided in audibility. Qui-Gon heard other footsteps ahead of him—coming his way. He readied himself, one hand on his lightsaber’s hilt—

  Someone yelped in fright, then swore, “Sacred bats, what are you doing here?”

  “Minister Orth?” Qui-Gon stepped forward to see her, still wearing her bronze-colored court dress from earlier in the evening. “I might ask you the same question.”

  “I’m double-checking security procedures,” she snapped. “It’s too important a job to be left to Czerka droids.”

  “I quite agree.”

  “You haven’t answered my question.” Orth folded her arms in front of her chest. “What are you doing here?”

  “…I wanted to have a look at the Celestial Chalice for myself, before the ceremony.”

  “You could’ve had anyone give you a tour during the day,” Orth said, “which would make sense and provide a better view. But as you will.”

  She hustled back toward the palace, apparently satisfied with his explanation. Qui-Gon wondered if he should be satisfied with hers.

  He continued on until he reached the other set of doors, which were carved of the same smooth white stone found on the cliffs by the sea. These swung open easily at his touch, revealing the Celestial Chalice in all its glory.

  And Qui-Gon had seen it before.

  The gilding around the lower edges of the domed ceiling, the octagonal altar, the arrangement of the seats around it—every single detail matched. When he looked down at his own bare feet, he saw the bright-blue tile beneath them.

  It was exactly like this in my dream, he thought, then caught himself.

  What Qui-Gon had experienced was no dream. It was a vision.

  “I will not take part in the treaty ceremony,” Qui-Gon said. “The Republic will have no representative, and therefore the treaty cannot go forward.”

  Were the stakes any less important, he might have been amused by the reactions around the banquet table. Obi-Wan’s eyes widened. Minister Orth dropped her knife. Captain Deren squinted at Qui-Gon as though his vision had suddenly gone blurry. Little Fanry bit her lip, maybe not to smile at the astonished adults around her.

  Rael, as expected, was furious. Rising to his feet, he said, “You raised your objections yesterday, Qui-Gon. I told you then, it’s not your decision to make—”

  “This isn’t about my personal opinion. It’s about a vision of the future—a warning—given to me by the Force.” Remembering the images from his dream, and the sheer feeling of horror that bound them together, steeled him against any objections. Qui-Gon knew what he knew.

  “Why did I ever show you those prophecies?” Rael shook his head as he paced the length of the table. “Dooku had the sense to keep them from you, but I didn’t know any better. I figured you were smart enough to tell legend from fact. I assumed you weren’t a fool who’d lose your head over other Jedi’s visions, much less your own. Well, Qui-Gon, you proved me wrong.”

  Minister Orth put her head in one hand. “Prophecies? This just keeps getting worse.”

  Was it still possible to reach Rael on any level at all? If so, Qui-Gon knew, it would be in their shared past. “You showed me the work of the ancient Jedi mystics—the work you collected with our Master—because it expanded your understanding of the Force, and helped to expand mine. Dooku believed in them. Will you call him a fool, too?”

  Orth said, “Who is this…Dooky?”

  From her place at her gilded chair, mouth full of breakfast, Fanry said, “Dooku. I’ve heard lots of stories about him. He taught Rael and Qui-Gon both. But I don’t think he’s a Jedi anymore.”

  Rael gestured at the child. “That’s right. Dooku left the Order, because he got sick and tired of the hypocrisy—the judgment—all of it.”

  “I don’t know why Dooku left the Order,” Qui-Gon said, “and neither do you. What I do know is that I’ve had two separate visions that predict disaster at the treaty ceremony.”

  Captain Deren finally spoke. “What kind of disaster?”

  Qui-Gon admitted, “It’s unclear.”

  “Unclear.” With one fist, Rael pounded the table. “You want to sabotage the coronation and the hyperspace corridor for something that’s ‘unclear.’ ”

  “What’s not unclear is the screaming I hear in the visions.” Qui-Gon looked around the banqueting table, piled high with more breakfast than a dozen courts could ever eat, making eye contact with each p
erson in turn. “Nor fighting with a lightsaber. Nor blood on the floor of the Celestial Chalice. And if any of you could feel the fear and despair that came with that vision—that is as much a part of it as any image or sound—you wouldn’t doubt this any more than I do.”

  Minister Orth put her hands on her hips. “I ran into you last night headed to the Celestial Chalice. Are you sure you weren’t sleepwalking?”

  “No, Minister. I was checking details from my vision against the reality of the Chalice. Even though I had never been inside it before, I had seen it all, precisely as it is, down to the tiles on the floor.”

  “Cool,” Fanry breathed. “Does that mean we can’t have a treaty ceremony?”

  “We’re signing the treaty!” Rael insisted. “On schedule, as planned. The Jedi Council will soon set Qui-Gon right.”

  Qui-Gon had not yet shared his vision with the Council, nor did he intend to. They would spend all their time bickering about the viability of the hyperspace corridor. They were too bound to Coruscant. Too bound to the chancellor. Too far from the living Force.

  They were no longer the sort of Jedi who could trust in a pure vision.

  It shocked him that he was that Jedi. That he could still find it in him to believe so profoundly, so unshakably, in pure mysticism. Qui-Gon had often felt out of step with the Order as a whole, but never to this degree.

  He had also never felt this close to the Force.

  * * *

  —

  Rahara Wick had received instructions from Qui-Gon Jinn the day before, requesting that the Meryx check out the Czerka landing pads throughout this section of the moon. She would’ve done it anyway. How could she mess up Czerka’s plans on this moon if she didn’t know more about what those plans were?