by Claudia Gray
Her failure to object to her nickname worried him more than anything else. Affie plopped down in the other chair so they sat opposite each other across the narrow mess table. Instead of answering his question, she said, “Where’s Geode?”
“Hittin’ the clubs. The gods only know what time he’ll be back. Someday that guy’s gonna have to slow down.”
“I don’t know how he does it,” Affie said, but the shared joke brought no smile to her face.
Leox leaned back and folded his hands behind his head. “Looks like I might get a whole lot farther by answering questions instead of asking ’em.”
It took her a few moments to begin, and she didn’t start with a question. “The Byne Guild doesn’t just hire people. It indentures them.”
“Correct.”
“You knew?” She gaped at him. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“At first,” he admitted, “I figured you had to be in on that little secret, what with being Scover’s prize pup and all. Then I realized you had a sweeter view of the world, still, and I didn’t want to be the one to take it away. Shame any of us has to lose it.”
Affie put her head down on the table. He didn’t push or pry, just took another drag and let her work it through.
Indentured servitude sometimes got made out to look better than it was, because it wasn’t as bad as slavery. Not even close. However, it also wasn’t as good as freedom. Indentures came about when people desperate for employment met employers who wanted workers who couldn’t talk back. Even ship owners fell prey to it, when they wound up with more repair and fuel bills than cargo—not an uncommon risk for smaller craft. People sold their labor and freedom of movement for a set period of time, usually no fewer than seven years; Leox had heard of indentures that lasted three whole decades. There were a few legal limits on what indentured servants could be forced to do in guilds that wanted to work with the Republic—they couldn’t be required to risk their own lives, for instance—but that still left indentured people trapped for years in the misery of unceasing, unrewarded labor. The Hutts, not surprisingly, built industries of such practice.
“I looked up my parents’ ship,” Affie finally said. “The Kestrel’s Dive. That’s how I found out they were indentured to—to Scover.”
Getting that out had cost her. Leox reached into the nearby coolbox and grabbed her a bottle of water. She took it without comment.
“You were right about the smugglers’ code,” she continued. “It wasn’t some group trying to cheat Scover out of money. It’s just proof that Byne Guild people use the Amaxine station. They almost have to. She offers bonuses and benefits if they’ll take the risks, including knocking a few years off their indentures. I’m pretty sure that’s the reason why my parents”—Affie gulped back a sob—“why they took the Kestrel’s Dive to that station. And why they died there.”
“That’s where they died?”
“I found it in her records,” she said dully. “Marked confidential. Just a few hours ago. Apparently some traders try tapping into the helix rings to boost their engines.” When done correctly, that maneuver could send a ship on a journey using only one-tenth the usual fuel. That would seriously amp up profit margins. But done incorrectly—and it was a hard thing to do right—it could blow a ship to smithereens. From the look on Affie’s face, her parents must have made that mistake.
“Oh, man.” Leox shook his head. “I’m so sorry you had to find out like that. Sorry you had to find out at all.”
“No,” she said fiercely. “Not that. I hate the knowledge, but—I’m glad I know.”
“You just have to get used to carrying that weight.”
She nodded. He clinked his own water bottle against hers, and for a while there was nothing to do but take it in.
The breaking of deep trance felt to Orla like surfacing from black waters, breath and light pouring over her. Although her eyes had been open, she had not been seeing her surroundings—or really anything—only connecting herself more profoundly to the other Jedi in the circle.
They all exchanged glances as they turned toward each other, their movements in perfect sync. Orla still retained control of her own mind and body—they had not pooled consciousnesses completely—but they had reached a state of harmony that allowed them to mirror not only motions but also thought and intent. This would give them the best possible chance of combating whatever evil was about to be set free.
As one, they raised their hands, perceived anew the warm intensity of the Force containment—and extinguished it.
The Shrine in the Depths did not fall dark, but everything suddenly seemed dimmer—no, she realized, just cooler. Even if the “warmth” of the containment had been an illusion, illusions had their own strength.
What she didn’t understand was that the chamber now seemed to be…empty. Nothing more. The only emanations of the Force came from her fellow Jedi.
“Did it dissipate into the vergeance already?” Orla asked. Confusion was weakening their shared bond. “Or is it still present? Lying in wait?”
“Nothing’s here.” Giktoo’s eyes widened as she took this in. “Nothing is trapped here. Nothing ever was.”
“That’s impossible,” said Master Mirabel. “We shared your memories of the Amaxine station. The darkness you sensed there—that raw power—it was very real.”
“And what about the warnings we received?” Orla interjected. “The visions?”
“I fear we may have misinterpreted the warnings.” Cohmac walked up to the jeweled insect idol. “Perhaps these were not used to contain the dark side. I think instead they were used to…to dampen it. To hold it in place. That’s why the containment exercises have been so difficult to execute. We were overlapping with their original purposes, ultimately undoing them.”
“Explain in really simple terms for those of us not fluent in Ancient Force Archaeology,” Orla said.
“These statues weren’t holding the dark side within themselves. They were holding the dark side on the Amaxine station—keeping it imprisoned there, attempting to warn us of it.” Cohmac put one hand to his chest as the import of his own words sunk in. “So when we removed the statues—”
“We didn’t remove the darkness,” Orla finished. “We set it free.”
To Orla’s deep gratitude, they had entered an area of the caves without any serpents. Master Laret led the way, glow rod in hand. Orla and Cohmac followed several steps after. At first Orla had believed her master insisted on keeping some distance between them in case any serpents attacked from behind.
Now that she had been able to better center herself, though, Orla knew as well as Master Laret did that no predators lurked nearby. Instead, the two apprentices were being given space so they could talk freely.
“I’m sorry about Master Simmix,” Orla said.
Cohmac nodded. His gaze remained unfocused. “We’re not supposed to mourn,” he said. “He’s one with the Force.”
She answered exactly as she was supposed to: “But we can regret his loss—” Cohmac cut her off with a gesture.
“It’s ridiculous.” He readjusted his robes, restless, ill at ease. “They command that master and apprentice spend years together, working as a partnership, as close as any family could possibly be, and then they expect us not to become attached. I never thought about it before—I never had to—but now I can’t escape how unfair it is. Worse than unfair. It’s wrong.”
His words struck an unfamiliar chord within Orla. Master Laret wasn’t necessarily completely orthodox in her methods, but never had she or anyone else come out and said that the Jedi might be completely wrong about something. About anything.
If only someone had spoken up before. Orla might not have felt so completely alone.
For years she’d been aware that she was most deeply connected with the Force at times and in ways that went contrary to Master Laret’s teachings. Orla wanted to follow her master’s teachings—Laret Soveral was the perfect model of a Jedi, in Orla’s opin
ion—but her own experience of the Force was not the same.
It will be, she told herself stubbornly. You’ll be more like Master Laret if you just keep trying. Cohmac’s hurting because he lost his own master, but there’s no reason to let his pain drag you away from Jedi teachings.
Trust your master. Trust the Order. Trust that someday it will all be clear to you, as clear as rainwater.
When Orla fell silent, Cohmac at first wondered if she condemned him—but no. Sympathy still radiated from her.
Probably she was only trying to guide him along the proper path. As Master Simmix had once said, “You can disagree with the Council, but it matters how you disagree.” Broadcasting the anger he felt was foolish. It solved nothing and reflected poorly on his master’s training. If Cohmac could not grieve, he at least intended to stand as an example of Master Simmix’s faithful duty to the Jedi.
Besides, anger was distracting, and this was not a time to get distracted.
Master Laret stopped walking and held up one hand, cautioning them. More serpents? Cohmac tensed and listened for the telltale rustle of scales on stone.
Nothing. Master Laret was staring upward.
In a low voice, she said, “I believe we are beneath the kidnappers’ lair.”
“Beneath?” Orla kept her voice down, too, despite her obvious puzzlement. “But these caves aren’t that deep—”
“We’ve traveled beneath a larger rock formation. There’s more room above us than before. Which means more caves.” Master Laret turned back to the Padawans, her expression grave. “Without any schematics, we can’t be certain—but I believe we’ll find a connection between this cave and theirs. At least some passageway. The air currents suggest it.”
Cohmac realized there was a slight breeze. “So, we’re going in?”
“We’re getting closer,” Master Laret corrected him. “We don’t go in until we know where the hostages are, whether they are alive, and how to keep them safe. Our job here isn’t to fight the kidnappers. It’s to save the hostages.”
It was good, before a skirmish, to remember that any armed action was only a means to an end. Cohmac nodded, determined to serve well in Simmix’s honor.
“You know,” Thandeka muttered, “we might not even be in this position if E’ronoh had been willing to negotiate with Eiram.”
Cassel had slightly long front teeth, round eyes, and a flatly upturned nose that made him resemble a bright blue voorpak. “I thought it was Eiram that wouldn’t negotiate with E’ronoh.”
Their two planets had been at odds for so long that no cooperation was seen as possible, and so none was sought.
How long had it been since anyone had even tried? Sometimes it felt as though Eiram defined itself not by its own merits but simply as those who stood against E’ronoh. She was beginning to suspect E’ronoh had done the same thing in reverse. Did anyone even truly recall the reasons for all this hate? Were those reasons still valid in the present day?
I’ll ask Dima, Thandeka thought before remembering that she would almost certainly never see her wife again.
“Besides, why wouldn’t we be in this position?” Cassel said. “These criminals—they weren’t a part of any trade talks between Eiram and E’ronoh, I’m sure—”
“No. But if we’d made trade deals with the Republic before, the scum of the galaxy wouldn’t be trying to edge their way in now. And the main reason we’ve never imagined dealing with the Republic is because we’ve never even learned to deal with each other.” For so long, they’d been proud of their independence. But at what point did pride become mere stubbornness? At what point did independence become willful ignorance?
Wherever that point was, Thandeka suspected both their planets had passed it a long time before.
Cassel’s face fell, but he tried to smile for her. He seemed to be a kind man. “At least our kidnappers aren’t having any fun, either. To judge by the big furry fellow’s scowl, he’s having nearly as bad a day as we are.”
Thandeka simply smiled back. It was kinder than mentioning that the angrier their captors became, the more likely they were to wind up dead.
What do they do with a leftover Padawan?
Reath had been pondering this question since a few hours after he’d learned of Master Jora’s death, as soon as he’d recovered from the extreme shock. It stood to reason that he’d be chosen by another master eventually, but when and how?
(It was a measure of the peace and prosperity of the Republic that Reath had never known an apprentice in the same situation.)
When he’d been summoned to another meeting of the Council, he’d assumed that it was about the Nihil he had identified on the Amaxine station. Reath was working hard to think of them that way, as the Nihil, instead of Nan and Hague. Ferocious warriors instead of refugees. Resetting his thinking, excising the kindness he’d felt toward them, might help him handle some of the intense shame he felt for betraying knowledge to an enemy—to the enemy who had killed Master Jora, no less. They had made a fool of him once but never would again.
The Council rarely concerned itself with individual Padawans. So probably they sought yet more information about the Nihil or wanted to chastise Reath for his carelessness. Maybe both.
Instead, as he knelt before them, Master Adampo said, “We wish to speak with you about your new master.”
“Has someone already chosen me?” Reath couldn’t imagine who. All the Masters he knew well had apprentices of their own—except, of course, those who had been with him on the Amaxine station, but surely one of them would’ve spoken to him first.
Master Rosason said, “No. You have suffered bereavement, and you alone can tell us the correct moment to resume your training.”
Reath hadn’t thought about when he’d like to start training again. Padawans didn’t get to make many huge decisions on their own, as a general rule, and his first reaction to this one was to wish it away. Choice felt like a burden. His grief for Master Jora was already heavy enough.
“Given the extraordinary circumstances,” continued Master Rosason, “we also welcome your input as to what sort of assignment would be most beneficial to you in future.”
“What do you mean?”
Master Adampo held out his hands, an expansive gesture. “Some in your situation might request a frontier assignment, in order to fulfill your late master’s wishes. However, others might ask for more time on Coruscant or one of the other Core Worlds, so that your working relationship with a new master can begin on more familiar ground. There are benefits and drawbacks to each option, and to other options we haven’t discussed here. It’s up to you to research, reflect, and give us an answer.”
I don’t have to go to the frontier after all, Reath thought.
Only a few weeks before, that would’ve been cause for celebration. But his freedom had been bought at too high a price.
His disquiet must’ve been apparent to the entire Council, because Master Rosason gently said, “You need not choose now. In fact, you should not; not enough time has passed for you to make an informed choice. We only wished to make you aware that this choice is yours.”
Reath thanked them and got out of the Council chambers as fast as he decently could. At least if the Masters had given him this responsibility, they’d allowed him the time to think things through. When he tried imagining his future, he could only picture one thing: going back to the Amaxine station to confront Nan and Hague—and arrest them if possible. To set right the one big mistake he’d ever made in his life.
And that was the one future that couldn’t happen.
Could it?
Affie had bluffed her way through the previous night, eating dinner with Scover and spending the night in her vast, luxurious hotel suite. As soft as the bed was, she’d hardly slept. Instead she lay for hours calling upon the few memories she had of her parents:
Riding in the cockpit of the Kestrel’s Dive on her mother’s lap, amazed at the beautiful nebula they were traveling through.
Paddling in the pools of Wrea, her father keeping one hand beneath her belly as she learned to swim.
Coming to them after a nightmare and falling asleep between them, feeling safe from any harm.
They wanted to be free while I was still young. The only way to do that was to take on Scover’s dangerous assignments. So they did. And they died.
The wrongness of it galled her, as did the knowledge that there was no way to set any of it right. Her mother and father were gone, just like poor Dez Rydan.
Was there really nothing she could do?
At dawn, she made some highly nonspecific inquiries in information bases, trying to discover whether anything Scover was doing counted as illegal. Probably not, she figured, given how the Byne Guild thrived throughout numerous systems. However, it turned out that the Republic had much more stringent rules about what indentured people could be required to do. Scover wasn’t forcing anyone, but the Republic laws were thorough, indicating that overly hazardous “incentives” could be found to constitute a requirement in the legal sense.
But the penalties were harsh. Jail time? Dissolution of any shipping company found to engage in those practices? Affie tried to imagine her life without the Byne Guild and failed.
We give good work to a lot of people, she rationalized, like Leox and Geode. Most of our pilots are free. How could I force them back into being independents?
It was hard work being an independent pilot, at least one who operated within the law. But it was also an easier question for Affie to ask herself than, Could I ever put Scover in jail?
There had to be another way to stop Scover from endangering her pilots. Affie racked her brain until she realized there was one thing she could do—if she had the guts to do it.
That morning, she scarfed down her breakfast and made her excuses to Scover, who waved her off absently; several of the hoped-for meetings had already been scheduled. That left Affie free to return to the spacedock, walk onto the Vessel’s bridge, and announce, “We have to go back to the Amaxine station.”
