Master & Apprentice (Star Wars)

by Claudia Gray

  “Just business,” Pax muttered.

  Saying it aloud made no difference. No matter how many logical reasons he had for behaving otherwise, Pax’s mind refused to quit thinking about Rahara.

  What was happening to her at this moment? She’d been a mine worker as a child, and had hated it. Would Czerka Corporation shove her back underground? But there were worse jobs—the worst in the galaxy—and Pax knew enough of Czerka to believe they might be punitive toward a recovered escapee. Or maybe she would be sold off as a “troublemaker.” In that case, she could wind up anywhere, doing anything.

  None of which was relevant to his situation or his plans.

  Pax wondered if maybe he was overlooking certain elements of the situation. His brain could be attempting to alert him to his faulty logic.

  Yes, there were always pilots seeking work. But pilots who were willing to perform illegal tasks weren’t always the sort of pilots who could be trusted. Rahara was one of the exceptions. Her combination of flying skill and mineralogical knowledge was both incredibly unusual and highly valuable to him.

  Rahara’s rarest talent of all—she’d liked him. She’d understood him in a way few others even tried to. Most sentients found him abrasive, which meant the average time of employment for all the pilots Pax had hired before Rahara was approximately twenty days. He had no desire to return to such high levels of turnover, but it seemed that he missed her as a person, and the warmth she had brought to his life, even more than he’d needed her as a pilot.

  In his head, he could just hear B-3PO saying, Why, that’s the silliest thing I ever heard.

  When the derelict station had finally been boarded, more than fifteen years since Pax had been stranded there as a child, the droids that raised him had been pleased.

  “Just think,” said G-3PO, “I’ll finally be translating again! It’s been ever so long.”

  “We will miss you.” B-3PO had tilted her blue head to study Pax for the last time. “But now all of us can return to our proper functionality, including you. How wonderful that we’ve all been rescued!”

  The droids shuffled off, clanking down the corridor. Pax had been left there, clutching his few possessions in a bag, wondering why he wanted to cry.

  He felt like that again now. Rahara’s presence haunted the Meryx. Her black scarf was still wrapped around the copilot’s chair. When Pax opened the mess stores, he saw her Chandrilan tea there, waiting for her. The cargo hold still smelled faintly of that complicated floral scent Rahara had bought on Coruscant and insisted on wearing, over his repeated objections.

  I believe, Pax said to himself, that this is known as grief.

  B-3PO answered in his mind: Well, it’s not as though there’s anything you can do about it. That’s our lot in life.

  The Meryx versus the Leverage—no, that wasn’t a contest likely to end well for him. Nor did he expect Jedi Knights to help him break at least a dozen laws. So he was helpless. But Pax remained paralyzed, unable to leave the system while there was any chance Rahara might still be in it.

  His comm chimed. Pax’s heart leapt—for absolutely no rational reason—then plunged when he recognized the frequency. He grabbed the comm. “Sorry, we don’t do business with the Jedi any longer. So you can take your comlink and—”

  “I think we can get Rahara out,” said Qui-Gon Jinn. “Unofficially, that is.”

  Pax reviewed what he thought he’d just heard. “Let me make sure I’ve understood you. Are you, a so-called guardian of peace and justice in the galaxy, suggesting an illegal raid?”

  “Precisely.”

  He knew without being told that any such raid would be dangerous, even with the Jedi on his side; the odds would be against them. He also knew that the rational thing to do was to get out of this system immediately, head to Gamorr, sell off his cargo, and start over with a new pilot.

  But Pax also knew—as surely as though he’d decided it long ago—that even if there was only a one in two million, twenty thousand, four hundred and seven chance of getting Rahara back, he wasn’t leaving this system without her.

  * * *

  —

  Everyone in Pijal seemed to be referring to the day as “Coronation Eve.” By now the entire palace was in an uproar of activity and celebration.

  Qui-Gon would have nothing to do with it.

  Instead, he stayed inside the palace dock. Tomorrow the area would be crowded with private spaceships and landspeeders, but today his only companions were sentry droids. Qui-Gon lay on a levitator to get under the small craft Fanry had put at his and Obi-Wan’s disposal—the one they’d flown to and from their rendezvous with Pax and Rahara. He wanted to know the thing inside and out before he finalized any plans. The ship was in sterling condition, but it wouldn’t be very good at jamming signals on its own. However, with the help of the Meryx’s field, it might be possible for them to approach the Leverage without being detected…

  “Wait until tomorrow night.”

  Qui-Gon slid out from under the ship to see Obi-Wan standing there. “…I beg your pardon?”

  “You shouldn’t try to rescue Rahara Wick until tomorrow night,” Obi-Wan said. He looked neither ashamed nor defiant, only calm. “Czerka will be on high alert until the treaty ceremony is over. Afterward, though, it sounds like every Czerka higher-up will be attending one of the many parties. Private citizens will take their ships into orbit as part of the celebration. That makes it easier to go unnoticed, and when you get to the Leverage, it ought to be all but deserted.”

  “An excellent plan,” Qui-Gon said. “I’m chagrined I didn’t think of it myself.”

  Obi-Wan ducked his head. “You’ve had other things on your mind.”

  The nightmarish scenario Qui-Gon knew would unfold at the ceremony had been replaying constantly in his head. He felt sickened every time he thought about Obi-Wan in the middle of that. Yet he knew there was nothing more he could do. The Council had made a terrible decision, and Obi-Wan would always obey the Council. “Yes, I have. And how did you know I was planning a rescue?”

  “Because you pulled up full diagrams and schematics of the Leverage this morning,” Obi-Wan said—then added, anticipating the next question, “I know that because I requested them right after you did. Your name was still listed as the last user of the terminal.”

  Qui-Gon couldn’t help smiling. “So I’m not the only one planning a rescue.”

  By now Obi-Wan had begun to relax. Some of his old humor came through as he said, “Another advantage of waiting until tomorrow night is that after the ceremony, my schedule is entirely free.”

  If he’s alive. But Qui-Gon couldn’t dwell on that any longer. The only way he could help Obi-Wan, at this point, was by attending the coronation. His foreknowledge would help him when disaster struck, and that might give him the chance to save his Padawan, Fanry, and others. It was his one hope.

  “Tomorrow night, then.” Qui-Gon got to his feet, wiping his greasy hands with a rag. “Thank you, Obi-Wan. I needed that clarity.”

  “I’m glad you—” Obi-Wan stopped. “Of course you’re angry with me. But you’d always put the mission first.”

  “Always,” Qui-Gon affirmed.

  It was easier to face tomorrow, now that he and his apprentice had again found some common ground. If the worst should happen, at least they had been able to speak to each other with respect and kindness, one more time.

  Maybe Obi-Wan’s decision already changed the flow of events, Qui-Gon thought as he listened to Obi-Wan’s laughter. Maybe that will be enough to change the future.

  Yet he still felt the weight of foreboding—the absolute sureness that deadly trouble was coming—

  Obi-Wan went silent, which was when Qui-Gon heard it, too: an enormous commotion outside the palace. As they turned to each other, Obi-Wan said, “What is that?”

  * * *
>
  —

  As Rael Averross saw it, things were finally going right.

  Qui-Gon’s Padawan had turned out to be more useful than his Master. Fanry was now alight with excitement about the ceremony tomorrow, and if she’d gone rogue sending Deren up to the moon—well, okay, she’d had a point. It was just more proof that he’d done a good job teaching her. Averross had sensed the growing determination within her. Fanry was ready to be a monarch, at least in the constitutional sense, and in less than a day Averross would see that crown on her head at last.

  “Ready for the party, Orth?” he called as he walked the perimeter of the Celestial Chalice, curving in one giant circle. “Gonna save me that first dance?”

  Minister Orth stood on the central dais, checking the lighting or something. He expected her to snap back. Instead, she said, “I’ve promised every single dance to others, Lord Regent. You’ll have to ask earlier next time. However, I will allow you to bring me a drink.” With the air of someone who had made a great concession, she turned back to her work.

  Averross managed not to laugh. So apparently Orth wasn’t always as sour with others as she was with him—

  “What’s going on? What’s that sound?” Orth said, straightening her pince-nez, like that would help her hear.

  At first Averross thought it was no more than another roar from the crowd that had been mobbed outside since the ceremony’s hour had finally been announced. But the noise kept building. Kept coming closer. It didn’t sound happy.

  His hand went to the hilt of his lightsaber. “What the hell?” he growled as he headed for the door that led not back into the palace, but outside.

  The royal grounds remained green and peaceful. Whatever was going on was happening outside the wrought-iron fence surrounding the palace. Averross ran across the grounds toward the main gate, where he could see Captain Deren and his guards beginning to gather.

  “Deren!” he shouted. “Any idea what the ruckus is about?”

  “We’ve received reports—” Deren began, but the shouting got even louder. He shoved his scanner toward Averross. Above it hovered a grainy hologram of Halin Azucca. Although he couldn’t hear what she was saying over the din, her words appeared under her face: AS WE APPROACH THIS CHANGE IN GOVERNMENT, IT IS NECESSARY FOR ALL VOICES TO BE HEARD; FOR ALL VOICES TO BE HEARD, WE NEED THE TRUTH TO BE KNOWN; THE TRUTH ABOUT THE OPPOSITION CANNOT BE KNOWN IF THE PALACE REFUSES TO LISTEN. I KNOW OF ONLY ONE WAY TO MAKE THEM LISTEN.

  The noise from the crowd became deafening. Averross looked up from the hologram to see people parting in a wave to reveal Halin Azucca herself, riding on a richly decorated mobile stage that hovered a few centimeters above the ground. She wore extravagant green robes as though she’d been invited to the coronation ball, but she kept her hands raised above her head.

  Beneath her hologram appeared the words: I SURRENDER.

  When Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan received the summons to the royal chamber, Qui-Gon decided to take the long way around—which meant cutting across the palace courtyard. This would let them get a look at the crowd gathering outside, to gauge its mood for themselves.

  The shouts and cries from the horde had reached a deafening pitch. Obi-Wan grimaced, but Qui-Gon kept his focus on the Pijali citizens, scanning their faces. Some showed anger, but others looked worried or even hopeful. Through the Force he could sense the swirling eddies of many different emotions. No one mood or thought dominated the crowd.

  Once they walked back into the palace, as soon as his ears stopped ringing, Qui-Gon said, “Apparently the people of this planet had more faith in the Opposition than its leadership did.”

  “Agreed, Master. At least, some of them did, and Azucca’s actions today may convince others.”

  “But can they convince Rael Averross?” The man had one day left as lord regent of Pijal. Was that the best time for Halin to throw herself on his mercy, or the worst?

  They walked into a space they’d never been invited to before: the lord regent’s private office—a cluttered place, as musty and run-down as everything else Rael surrounded himself with. Various data solids, holoprojectors, and scanners were piled so high they blocked half the light from the dusty windows; Qui-Gon wondered absently whether anything that had entered this office had ever been taken out again.

  But most of his attention remained focused on Halin, who sat in a chair opposite the broad regent’s desk. She sat up straight and wore her green theatrical robes with flair. Rael, meanwhile, was pacing on the other side of the desk like a caged beast. Ironically, the revolutionary appeared more regal than the regent did.

  “I don’t know what kind of a stunt you’re trying to pull here,” Rael said, still pacing. “Showing up here, spinning your stories—”

  “This isn’t a story.” Halin glanced back at Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan; she seemed glad they were there, but she directed her words to the lord regent alone. “This is truth. Verifiable truth, if you’ll follow up on these leads.”

  She nodded toward a datapad in Captain Deren’s hands, which apparently had been confiscated from her when she turned herself in. Deren glared. “This shows us nothing,” he says. “It’s locked.”

  Halin took a deep breath. “Master Jinn can unlock it. Only Master Jinn.”

  “What do you mean?” Qui-Gon reached out to take the datapad; Deren handed it over, with a frown. “And what truth am I to find here?”

  “After you were in the cave with us, we took your thumbprint from something you’d touched. Sorry if that’s invasive, but already I knew it could come to this.” She stared down at her hands in her lap, shackled together by the binders that mocked her supposedly genteel reception in the office. “The regent’s never treated us fairly before, and where the regent goes, the palace guard follows—”

  “Treated you ‘fairly,’ ” Rael practically snarled at her. “What’s ‘fair’ for a bunch of terrorists?”

  Halin ignored this. “After we met you, Master Jinn, we saw that you were impartial, and committed to determining the facts of the situation. So we wanted this information to come through you and you alone.”

  “Taking a print is invasive—but I understand your reasoning.” Qui-Gon pressed his thumb on the identiscan. After a moment, the datapad hummed, then displayed its data.

  Obi-Wan, who was looking over Qui-Gon’s shoulder, read more quickly. “You think you’ve identified a blackguard base here on Pijal?”

  Rael scoffed. “That’s nonsense. The armed attacks have all been based from the moon, which by no coincidence is where her Opposition is based.”

  “The armed attacks have all originated on the moon.” The admission cost Halin—Qui-Gon could see that—but she was more hopeful than afraid. “So we never really searched the planet before. After the last attack on Czerka, though, one of my people was finally able to lock onto a blackguard signal and follow it to the planet’s surface. She used to work in holovids, you know, so she’s good at that kind of thing. We were surprised, too—”

  “Like hell you were.” Rael was still pacing. Anyone who didn’t know him as well, Qui-Gon thought, wouldn’t have been able to spot these first slivers of doubt.

  Halin closed her eyes, as though asking for patience. “What we found is a heavily armed installation. Since we’re a theater troupe”—Halin ignored Rael’s snarl—“obviously we don’t have the skills or the firepower to check this out ourselves. Instead, I’ve brought it to you. All I ask is that you investigate this base thoroughly, on your own terms.”

  “We will,” Qui-Gon said. “With or without the help of royal officials. Though I’d prefer you were with us, Rael.”

  Deren looked back and forth between the two men. “Lord Regent? Your orders?”

  Finally Rael stopped pacing. He took a deep breath. “We’ve got nothing to lose. Let’s go.”

  * * *

  —

>   Their craft swept along the coastline, with sand on one side and sea on the other.

  On a boundary, Averross thought. Toeing the line. Like I always am.

  During his eight years as lord regent of Pijal, he’d begun to feel as though he’d carved out a place for himself for the first time in his life. This was a place that understood how a rough exterior could conceal a worthy interior. A place where his raw feelings about Nim’s death could serve a worthwhile purpose. His place. Averross trusted himself on Pijal, and he’d never thought he would trust himself again, after the Advent mutiny.

  But if he’d been wrong about the Opposition—if he’d put royal guards in danger, put Fanry in danger—

  “Coming into range,” said Qui-Gon. He stood beside Averross in the craft, both of them holding on to anchor straps as they were buffeted by winds from the open sides. The scanner Qui-Gon held in his other hand blinked rapidly, white-red-white, signaling their prey.

  “All right. Deren, take us in,” Averross called.

  Captain Deren responded only by bringing the craft down.

  A few hundred meters from the ocean, dug-out trenches began to appear. Then stonework. Then a familiar, octagonal shape.

  “A Celestial Watchtower,” Averross muttered. He didn’t realize he’d spoken out loud until Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan turned to him, curious. “It’s an ancient fort, built to watch over the soulcraft back in the days when spaceflight was a lot more dangerous. Most of ’em are ruins now. Looks like this one was, too…until somebody decided to renovate.”

  Ground craft. Surface-to-air weapons. Laser cannons. Top-of-the-line droidekas. This was a serious military installation. Beyond anything the Opposition had ever possessed, so far as Averross knew.

  Yet there were no signs of life. No paramilitary troops returning fire, no guards hurrying to evacuate leaders. The place was both armed to the death and completely deserted.

  “Lord Regent!” Deren shouted. “Stealth shield generators!”