by Claudia Gray
He had a mission. Time to focus on it.
Reath told Kym, “I shouldn’t complain about this assignment. About any assignment, ever.”
Kym managed to shrug and dance to the music simultaneously. “Hey. It’s not like everybody’s equally ready to take on every possible assignment. That’s why they’re called assignments instead of, I don’t know, ‘volunteering opportunities.’”
“I’m treating this like it was just a job.” By then Reath was talking to himself as much as to Kym. “Being a Jedi is a calling. We’re blessed with these abilities—these gifts—that we’re meant to use for the good of all living things. That’s just as true on the frontier as it is here on Coruscant.”
It just didn’t feel as true.
Rolling her eyes, Kym said, “Thanks for the lecture, Master Yoda. Now will you loosen up and have some fun already?”
Reath tried. It was good to see everyone again. (A handful of apprentices had gone on already; he was looking forward to reuniting with Imri in particular. And Vernestra had somehow gotten herself knighted already, which was amazing, so she’d be able to show them the ropes around Starlight.) The amateur band a few apprentices had put together had actually practiced, for once, which meant they sounded pretty good. He smiled, he danced, he drank certain beverages that, while not technically forbidden, were frowned upon for Padawans his age. A small measure of indulgence wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, his master had said. Such celebrations could be embraced when they brought people together in communion and harmony.
But his gaze kept being drawn toward the one broad viewport in the room. Through its wide transparent stretch he could see the vibrant swirl of Coruscant: ships and speeders zipping by at various heights and angles, the spires of buildings, walkways so numerous they crisscrossed his view like an arachnid’s web. As long as he could remember, Reath had loved this buzz of energy—the sense that the galaxy itself had a beating heart and that he could feel its pulse all around him, every single day.
“Look within, my Padawan.” That was what Master Jora had said when Reath tried expressing this to her. “You’re just reluctant to leave the only home you’ve ever known.”
That wasn’t all of it…but it was part of it. A small part, but still. Knowing that changed nothing. Reath still wanted to be there, and nowhere else.
His chrono beeped, and his heart sank. Time to leave the party, the Archives, the Temple, the planet, and, effectively, civilization itself.
Reath didn’t manage to disentangle himself from his friends’ affectionate farewells for some time, which meant he left late for the spaceport. He dashed in, bag slung across his back, only minutes before their scheduled departure—yet somehow was the first person to show up at the designated berth. None of the other Jedi was there, nor was the ship itself.
Did he have the wrong berth number? Reath was already frantically double-checking when he heard a voice he recognized: “I was hoping I’d run into you!”
Reath turned to see a young Jedi Knight approaching—Dez Rydan, striding closer with a bag over the shoulder of his traveling robes. It didn’t look like he’d come to the spaceport to tell Reath goodbye. “Dez? What are you doing here?”
Dez grinned as he said, “Looks like we’re on the same transport to the frontier.”
“I didn’t know you were assigned out there,” Reath said. A young Knight as illustrious as Dez could go anywhere he wished.
“Just came through.” Dez shrugged. “Actually, I requested this assignment only a few days ago. Lucky it got approved in time, huh?”
Reath nodded, which was easier and more tactful than saying, Why does anybody in their right mind want to leave the known galaxy for the back end of beyond? Much less Dez Rydan?
Probably it had to do with what Master Jora had said about her second Padawan not wanting enough adventure while her first craved adventure too much.
Dez had been Master Jora Malli’s apprentice before she took on Reath. Sometimes younger Knights became mentors and close friends to their former masters’ next charges. While Reath and Dez didn’t have as tight a relationship as that, due to Dez’s missions farther away in the galaxy, they were friendly and had practiced dueling together. This made Reath the envy of many Padawans, several of whom had chosen Dez as a role model.
Despite Reath’s more academic bent, he admired Dez as much as any of the others. Handsome, driven, tall, with golden skin and thick black hair, Dez made friends readily. Though he had passed his Knighthood trials only eight years previously, he’d already distinguished himself in both diplomacy and battle.
“Where’s the transport?” Reath said through the blur of those beverages he’d drunk, hoping Dez wouldn’t notice his condition. (He didn’t fear a lecture, in any case. Reath had it on good authority that Master Jora had once caught Dez after a party at which far, far more beverages had been consumed, and that she didn’t let him entirely off the hook until after he’d passed his Knighthood trials.)
If Dez did notice the state Reath was in, he apparently saw no reason to point it out. “It seems our original transport has a blown subalternator,” said Dez. “Obviously there’s not much to be done with that. They claimed to have arranged a substitute for us, but even the substitute is running late.”
“What if they don’t show?” Reath asked, half hoping the answer would be, You get a whole new assignment and start over!
Dez shrugged. “We’ll find another ship. Surely somebody’s headed out there in another day or two.”
“A day or two? Forget that.” Orla Jareni folded her arms across her chest as she leaned against one of the nearby struts. She seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, almost luminous in the dark gray mundanity of the spaceport. While Reath and Dez wore common mission attire, she had on snowy robes that were uniquely hers. “I’m ready to get out there. Trust me, there’s at least one ship in this spaceport that wants our money badly enough to take us straight through the Maw, if need be.”
Reath only knew Orla Jareni by reputation, but that reputation was a memorable one. Orla had recently declared herself a Wayseeker—a Jedi who would operate independently of the dictates of the Jedi Council. Some Jedi, from time to time, found themselves drawn to a period of solitary action, whether that meant meditation on a mountaintop, helping revolutionaries on a tyrant-ruled world, or even, in one legendary instance, becoming a minor singing sensation on Alderaan. All paths could lead to a deeper understanding of the Force, Reath had heard. Personally he didn’t buy it. Still, if the Jedi Council respected Orla’s decision, so would he. It seemed she felt her path led to the frontier.
Her appearance was as strikingly individual as her choices. She was an Umbaran, with the stark pale skin and high cheekbones common to that species. Her white robes were so pristine that they made her skin appear to have some small measure of color by comparison. Her hair, drawn back into a smooth knot, was a silver nearly as dark as black. Everything about Orla was angular, from the joints of her double-bladed lightsaber down to the corners of her knowing smile.
Which she was giving Reath right then, because he’d been caught staring. He ducked his head and hoped he wasn’t blushing.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” said Master Cohmac Vitus as he walked up to join the waiting group. His resonant voice beneath the hood of his golden robe made each word sound like a judge’s weighty pronouncement. “Hardly any commercial traffic is headed toward Starlight—at least, so far.”
Reath didn’t know Master Cohmac well, though he would’ve liked to. The human man was renowned as both scholar and mystic. He seemed to have footnotes in half the books Reath read, on topics as diverse as ancient Force rituals and high-crisis hostage negotiations. None of that fully explained the mystique that hung about him. Master Cohmac stood at average height for a male of human or near-human species, but seemed taller because of his slender, angular build, the thick black hair he wore almost to his shoulders, and the gravitas of his presence.
Until recen
tly, Reath had often seen Master Cohmac in the Archives. He’d spent many hours seated not far away while both of them dove into holocron after holocron. So why would Master Cohmac have requested a distant duty posting on the frontier? Then it hit Reath: Oh, right, he’s also a folklorist. He’ll be collecting the local histories and legends, probably.
He wondered whether that might be dangerous for Master Cohmac, who was known to be highly sensitive to the Force. Going someplace so wild would surely expose them all to influences none of them had yet dreamed of.
Only then did Reath realize that Orla Jareni and Cohmac Vitus were walking toward each other, gazes locked, half smiles on their faces. “Now, see, I could’ve sworn,” Orla said, “that I once heard you say you’d never return to that patch of the galaxy again.”
“It doesn’t matter how far we run, or in what direction,” Master Cohmac replied. “In the end, we always come back to the beginning.”
Slowly, Orla nodded. “Yes. It’s time for me to bring things full circle.”
What could that mean? Reath and Dez exchanged glances that suggested they were equally curious, but equally unwilling to pry.
At that moment, Reath’s attention—and everyone else’s—was distracted by a ship flying through the spaceport, rather low, then landing squarely on the pad where their transport ought to have been. It was an unusual ship, at least to Reath: its plating was dark blue, and its cockpit and engines both rounded to the point of being bulbous. Either it had been built a very long time before, or the beings who built it didn’t bother keeping up with technological developments—which was a troubling thought. As it settled onto the pad, the Jedi all exchanged glances.
“Looks more like a transport ship than a passenger craft,” Master Cohmac said.
“Who cares? It can make hyperspace, can’t it?” Dez grinned as displaced air ruffled their hair and robes with a hiss.
Reath frowned. “Maybe?”
No sooner had the ship settled onto the platform with a heavy metallic clunk than the hatch popped open. From it emerged a young girl—possibly Reath’s age, no more than a year or two older, with tan skin. Her long brown hair hung free as she strode toward them wearing a normal pilot’s coverall, an unusually neat, pressed one, in the same distinctive shade of blue as the ship itself. On the sleeve was stitched a star-shaped crest in dark orange. She put her hands on her hips and studied them all as though disappointed. “You’re the passengers for Starlight? I thought we were picking up a bunch of monks or something. You look…normal.”
“We are your passengers, and could be called monks of a sort,” said Master Cohmac without any sign of surprise and only a slight pause before asking, “Are you the pilot?”
She grinned and pointed her thumb at the door. “Of course not. I’m the copilot, Affie Hollow. He’s the pilot.”
A teenage copilot seemed questionable to Reath, but when he looked in the direction she was pointing, all those questions vanished, replaced by far more pressing ones. Questions like: Is that man’s shirt open to the waist? Is he holding out his arms to us like he wants a group hug? Does he want a group hug? Is that guy on spice?
No—how much spice is that guy on?
“Beautiful children,” said the pilot, with a laconic drawl and a huge grin. “I’m Leox Gyasi, and I hereby welcome you to the vessel.”
There was a brief pause, which made Reath feel better; even experienced Jedi weren’t totally sure how to approach this guy. Dez finally stepped forward with his usual charm. “Dez Rydan. A pleasure to know you. What’s the name of your ship?”
Leox and Affie shared a glance, clearly in on a joke that was about to be sprung. “Already told ya,” Leox said. He was a tall, tan, and rangy human, and his wavy dark blond hair looked as though it might not have been combed recently. Possibly ever. “Our vessel is called…the Vessel. I named it not for the container itself, but the space within the container that gives it its value and purpose. To remind me to look beyond the obvious, you know?”
That sounds like Master Yoda on spice, Reath thought. Which was either a very good sign or a very, very bad one.
“Love it,” Orla said with apparently genuine relish. “So, can we see our bunks?”
Affie made a face. “About that. We’re really more of a transport ship”—Master Cohmac gave Dez a look that seemed to say, Just our luck—“but we’ll set up some partitions and cots for you.” Affie’s narrow face lit up when she smiled. “Just because we’re a last-minute substitution doesn’t mean we can’t make it comfortable.”
Leox cut in: “That is, if you’re not super particular about your personal definition of ‘comfort.’”
Orla was the first to head toward the gangway. “We are Jedi, Mr. Gyasi. We don’t require pampering.”
Affie wrinkled her nose. “So, are the Jedi monks or not?”
That stopped Reath short before he realized what this must mean. If they didn’t even really understand what the Jedi were…“You guys have to be from out on the frontier, huh?”
“To us, it’s not a frontier, son.” Leox led them all after Orla into the Vessel. “It’s home. But if you mean we’re not used to this stretch of the galaxy, that’s the truth. Never been this close to the Core before, not by a long shot.”
“The Byne Guild handles shipping throughout the sector.” Affie sounded proud. “We’re just one of the Byne Guild’s ships—one of the smaller ones, honestly—but Scover Byne still gave us the first-ever mission to Coruscant.”
Reath, embarrassed by his tactlessness about “the frontier,” was eager to move the conversation forward. He felt sure that this was his opening to ask more about Leox and Affie, their ship, and why they’d earned this particular honor. He also found himself eager to explain the Jedi Order to people who somehow had never heard of it.
But all conversation came to an end as Leox and Affie stopped their group at the edge of the cockpit. “And this here,” Leox said with a grin, “is our ship’s navigator, Geode.”
Standing in one corner of the cockpit was a rock.
About as tall as and slightly wider than Reath himself, dark gray, with rounded edges and a flinty, flaky surface. Impressive, as rocks went. But still, it was just a rock, wasn’t it? Reath frowned, sure this was some kind of weird joke.
“He’s a Vintian, from Vint.” Leox lazily wrapped an arm around the rock’s “shoulders,” just like anyone would with a friend. “Geode’s a nickname, by the way. Turns out you can’t pronounce his name correctly unless you don’t have a mouth.”
Reath tried to parse that, and failed. His main consolation was that Dez and Master Cohmac looked as confused as he felt. Orla Jareni, however, wore another of her knowing grins.
“Geode, huh?” she said. “Pleased to know you.”
Affie briefly patted Geode’s side. “He’s a little shy at first, but just wait until he gets to know you.”
Leox cackled as he began leading them from the cockpit into the ship. “Yeah, you just wait. But I don’t want to give you fellas the wrong idea. Geode’s a wild man, for sure, but when it comes to steering the ship, he’s all business.”
“Solid, you might say.” Orla raised an eyebrow. “Very well. Let’s get a look at our bunks.”
“Well, we sort of have to create your bunks before you can see them,” Affie admitted. “Might as well get started.”
Great, Reath thought as he turned to follow the others. Not only am I headed to the back end of the galaxy, but the job of getting us through hyperspace belongs to a rock.
Sometimes the Force had a sense of humor.
Within the half hour, their temporary quarters had all been built and assigned, and both passengers and crew had strapped in for takeoff. From where Reath sat, he could just glimpse the cockpit window, framed by control panels on one side and the outline of Geode (still motionless) in what must have been the navigator’s position. He had to crane his neck for that look, but it was worth it. This was the last time he would see Coruscant for many mo
nths, maybe a year; Reath refused to consider the possibility of his assignment lasting any longer than that.
Home, he thought. The word pierced him like an arrow. The Jedi were not taught to think of their temples as home, nor the planets where they’d been born. Yet the longing for a home was something that no sentient being could ever completely be free of. Reath didn’t want to be free of it. He wanted to remember Coruscant just like this—glittering, prosperous, ascendant.
Do you resist your duty, my Padawan? Master Jora’s voice echoed within Reath’s memory, gently amused but pointed, too. Surely that is unworthy of a Jedi.
I want to do my duty, Reath replied in his own head, more clearly than he’d managed to express himself to Master Jora when they’d last spoken. But I feel that my duty is here, on Coruscant, in the Archives.
He reminded himself that if something was telling him he shouldn’t change his life at all, not even a tiny bit, that might not be the Force.
But it might be.
Reath scrunched down in his seat, clinging to his trust in the instincts that told him this entire trip was a bad idea, at least for him. The other three Jedi all looked steady, even serene. He envied them their certainty, their steadfast connection to the Force.
When I’ve passed my trials, Reath mused, I’ll be like them. Steady and sure. With purpose. Without any conflicts or doubts.
Orla Jareni braced her hands on the thickly padded straps of her safety harness. This was rougher transit than she was used to—the kind of thing she’d hoped to find on the frontier and had found even closer to home. She wanted to see it as a good sign, but it was always a mistake to carve omens out of hope, or dread. True omens created themselves and could not be mistaken when they came.
No signs had yet appeared to prove that she’d made the right decision.
Should I take it all back? Orla wondered. The Council wouldn’t begrudge me that. If I tell them I was wrong, then—
Then you’ll break faith with yourself. At least begin. Go back to the origins of it all. Then you’ll know whether you’ve made the right decision.
