by Claudia Gray
After that, getting away from the Amaxine station wouldn’t be that difficult. Yes, it took them a long while to cut away all the thick, ropey dead vines entrapping the Vessel, but they had time to work, with no Drengir or Nihil to worry about.
(At least some of the Nihil had survived; their ship remained operational. Probably most of the survivors had been on board when Reath blew the airlock, rather than on the station. But there couldn’t be that many of them—scans indicated that they’d shut down most areas of their spacecraft and were taking stock of the damage. Orla had no doubt the Nihil would want revenge for this someday, but they knew better than to try to take it that day.)
“Is the station completely emptied out?” Affie asked as Leox and Geode ran final systems checks. “Broken? Useless?”
“Honestly, most of it survived in pretty good shape,” said Orla, who had just completed a quick search to check on things. “Several plants had grown outside the arboretum—I imagine they’ll find their way back in, with the help of the Aytees that were in outer sections of the station when Reath blew the lock. All the major systems are intact. However, it has no hyperspace pods any longer, all of which were launched away from their return mechanisms, meaning this place has no more tactical value. It’s just an arboretum now.”
Affie nodded. The girl seemed oddly satisfied by the station’s depowering for some reason, but Orla chose not to pry. It was enough to know that they were all alive—even Dez!—all more or less well, and able to go home.
And with more hyperspace lanes being cleared every day, the frontier couldn’t elude Orla for much longer. Wild open space beckoned, and she couldn’t wait to answer the call.
Reath got to take it easy on the trip back to Coruscant. His injuries from the venting maneuver were minor but numerous: scrapes and cuts on his skin from shards of debris, a slight sprain of one hand from gripping the ladder so hard, plus bruises and a blackening eye from his lifesaving collision with Geode. This meant he got propped up in his bunk with hot tea, blankets, and praise for his heroic actions, which was the best painkiller of all.
For the purposes of keeping their eyes on both patients at once, the other Jedi had taken down the barrier between Reath’s “room” and Dez’s. Unfortunately Dez wasn’t doing nearly as well.
Dez lay on his cot, his breath ragged. His golden-tan complexion had turned ashen, and his skin had gone clammy. Despite being bandaged with synthplast skin, the wounds on Dez’s arms and legs remained livid and tender.
When Master Cohmac came to check on them, he murmured, “Have you tried a healing, Reath?”
“I tried,” Reath said. “Master Jora always said it was worth trying. But I doubt I did much. Not knowing exactly what toxins the Drengir put in his bloodstream—well, that didn’t help.”
Orla poked her head in. “How is he?”
“He’s not getting worse,” Reath said. “But he’s not getting better, either.” It was clear that Dez needed to get a lot better, and fast.
“Pardon the intrusion,” said Leox, who was coming through the door with a cloth-wrapped packet in his hands. “I may be able to provide some surcease of our friend’s pain.”
Orla and Cohmac exchanged glances as Leox went to sit by Dez’s head. Then Reath couldn’t register their reactions, only his own shock, as Leox pulled out pressed leaves that smelled distinctly, strongly, unmistakably of spice.
Leox began pressing the broad, soft leaves to Dez’s chest, then wrapped others around his wounds, and finally laid one across his forehead. By the time he’d finished applying them, Dez had already begun to breathe easier.
When the Masters exchanged glances, Leox said, “I told you it was medicinal.”
Master Cohmac actually smiled. Reath generally didn’t think it was a good idea to keep secrets from the Jedi Council…but this one time might be the exception. Besides, the Council would be unhappy enough with them already.
It had been just over a day since they’d left Coruscant, but the memories felt far more distant. Reath reflected again on the rules they’d broken to get there, the reaction that would inevitably result. “We’ll be disciplined, won’t we? For coming here in the first place.”
“They may decide what we accomplished here is worth pardoning us,” said Master Cohmac. “If they don’t, we’ll not only be disciplined, but perhaps even thrown out of the Order completely.”
Reath blanched. Would his first mission as an independent Jedi be his last?
Then Orla laughed. “Cohmac, take it easy on him, all right? Reath doesn’t have the experience to know the difference between what could happen and what’s likely to.” She turned to Reath and said, “Yes, we’re in trouble. But I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”
Orla was seriously underestimating Reath’s deep, long-standing relationship with worry. He pulled his blanket firmly up to his shoulders and began mentally composing his own defense.
The Vessel’s return to Coruscant ought to have been a relief. They were safe again, unlikely to encounter the Drengir for a long time to come. The Nihil—well, they were still out there, but at least Affie wouldn’t have to deal with them for a while.
Yet she felt numb. Directionless.
As she trudged through the tasks associated with docking—lubing up the landing-gear joints, putting in Guild bank codes for refueling—she kept thinking about the Amaxine station.
Scover couldn’t use it for its original purposes anymore. The Jedi had seen to that by making the station known. Undoubtedly some entrepreneurial species or group would take it over and turn it into a standard commercial stop. No more desperate, indentured smugglers would be able to make illegal use of it. Scover’s insidious “bonuses” would vanish. Nobody else had to die the way Affie’s parents had.
Yet Scover would keep on using indentured pilots. The Amaxine station was far from the only hazardous place in the galaxy. She would keep coercing those pilots under her control to undertake dangerous missions. It would still be the one possibility to pay out of an indenture before old age.
I thought this would teach her something, Affie decided. It wouldn’t have. It would’ve showed her how angry I am, that’s all.
She went to Scover’s hotel that night and endured the inevitable scolding.
“Running off like that was very worrying,” Scover said over a luxurious dinner on the spacious balcony overlooking the Coruscant city lights. Her even tone suggested no worry at all—but that was how Bivalls were. How Scover was. So Affie had always told herself; she still mostly believed it. “I realized you had to be on the Vessel, but I hadn’t thought you would leave without telling me goodbye.”
“The Jedi wanted to go back in a hurry, and in secret.” This was true, if not the whole truth.
“And the customer is always right.” Scover nodded. “It’s good that you have learned to prioritize pleasing our clients. Profit cannot be maintained otherwise.”
Affie couldn’t resist saying, “There are more important things than profit.”
“Yes,” Scover said, “but not many things.”
“Our pilots’ lives are more important,” Affie said. After a pause she added, “Don’t you agree?”
Scover seemed unbothered. “That is a determination the pilots must make for themselves. We all balance risk and reward, Affie.”
“People don’t usually risk their lives for rewards. They usually risk them to escape something terrible.”
“Plenty of people risk their lives for rewards.” Scover continued sampling the Chandrilan delicacies heaped on their dining table. “Racer pilots, for instance. Mmmm, have some of the baha. I remember that you loved it.”
Affie obediently took a dish of the baha. But even its cool sweetness couldn’t penetrate the fog of depression. She might as well have been eating plain crushed ice.
“There, now.” The small smile on Scover’s face widened just a little. “You appreciate good things, Affie. You must appreciate that you receive these things because of the By
ne Guild’s prosperity. Someday, two or three decades from now, I will retire, and all this will become yours. But I must know I’d be leaving my Guild in the right hands. You understand it all now, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Affie said. “I understand it all.”
That night, Affie considered returning to the Vessel to sleep. But the view from the balcony soothed her—the constant low hum of activity turning into white noise, tranquil in its way. She needed soothing. Her brain was racing.
Long after Scover had gone to bed, Affie sat up late, her brown hair ruffled by the breezes. She looked up at Coruscant’s strange, starless sky and wondered whether she could keep silent. If she did, Scover would continue to give her more and more authority within the Guild. Affie might gain the ability to free indentures earlier, at far lower prices. When Scover died or retired, Affie would inherit it all—wealth and power almost beyond imagining, if their Republic expansion plans came to fruition. Then she could end indentures in the Guild and protect everyone.
When that day came, years and years later. Decades. The better part of a human lifetime.
Yes, Affie could wait. But the indentured pilots couldn’t.
Reath stood at the center of the Jedi Council among his friends.
On one hand, it was amazing to realize that these full, adult Jedi Masters—Cohmac Vitus and Orla Jareni—considered him friends. To reflect that they looked on him as more than an apprentice, more of a partner in their endeavors.
On the other hand, he was uncomfortably aware that this friendship might have to continue outside the Jedi Order. They had all either ignored or directly defied the commands they’d been given (except for Dez, of course, who was finally resting well among the Temple’s medics).
For the time being, all he could do was stand at his full height, express deference to the Council, and hope for the best.
“You are each aware, of course,” said Master Adampo, “the dangers when Jedi go rogue. Even Wayseekers have protocols to follow. The abilities we possess, the skills we have learned to wield—these cannot be used in the pursuit of selfish concerns. If they are not employed in the service of others, they are employed wrongly. That is why the Order exists, to ensure that our abilities do not corrupt us, but instead enrich the galaxy and the Force itself.”
Reath caught a fleeting expression on Orla’s face, one that suggested she didn’t agree with every element of that speech. He was relieved that she (uncharacteristically) decided not to share those thoughts with the Council. That was probably more for his benefit, and the others’, than for herself.
“However,” Master Adampo continued, “while your reasons may have been unofficial, they were not selfish. In fact, they were selfless in the extreme. Jareni and Vitus hoped to contain entities deeply connected to the dark side. And Padawan Silas knew he could gain more information on enemies of the Republic on the frontier. The risks you assumed were great. All of you nearly lost your lives. Yet you managed to take a valuable strategic resource away from enemies of the Republic. More than that, you saved Dez Rydan, whom we had all believed lost.”
Master Rosason added, more sternly, “Given that this is not common behavior for any of you, and the importance of the results you achieved—the Council votes against discipline at this time. But be aware: future rogue actions will be judged far more harshly.”
“In other words,” said Master Adampo, “don’t make a habit of it. We are adjourned.”
Reath’s shoulders sagged with relief. The other Jedi were less surprised than he was—maybe they had enough experience to tell how far they could push the Council. That was experience Reath had no intention of gaining. From then on, he was following every rule more faithfully than ever before.
As they all turned for the door, however, Master Adampo said, “Padawan Silas, if you could remain for a few moments?”
Oh, no. They’re going to punish me after all. Despite the sinking feeling in his gut, Reath turned back to the Council and stood tall before them. From the corner of his eye, he caught a sympathetic glance from Orla, but the others had been dismissed and had to leave. Reath was on his own.
Master Adampo said, “Padawan Silas, you have not yet answered us.”
“No, sir. Ah, what was the question again, sir?”
“We’re not discussing this hearing, but our previous conversation with you. Are you ready to begin training again?”
Reath remembered, as though recalling a dream, that the Council had put his future in his own hands. Where would he go? What path would he walk?
“It’s up to you, Silas,” said Master Adampo. “What comes next?”
Affie was used to “government offices” that were official in name only. They operated out of someone’s ship, or the back of a cantina. Instead of laws and regulations, most people obeyed the customs of a region, or the whims of some local potentate.
The Republic ran things differently. She’d been told that before, but the truth of it didn’t fully hit her until she walked into the offices that regulated shipping. Every step she took in her shabby boots echoed off the polished stone floors; the high ceiling was held aloft by columns too thick for her to put her arms around. Every piece of equipment she saw gleamed with cleanliness, as though each had been put in place only the day before. Affie had timed her visit for just after opening—mostly because she couldn’t stand to hang around for Scover to return from her breakfast meeting, but partly because she thought most people wouldn’t be up that early. Instead the place was bustling, yet orderly.
She found the pristine environment more intimidating than welcoming. The files she’d downloaded onto the datapad in her bag glowed with imagined heat, like they’d burn their way through the canvas. More than once, Affie thought of simply walking back out the way she’d come.
But she stayed put long enough for her name to be called.
Affie was ushered into a small room with a Twi’lek minor official. Despite the fact that Affie was a seventeen-year-old girl, the Twi’lek seemed to be taking her seriously. If he’d laughed her off, that would’ve given her an excuse—
But she was sick of excuses.
“You wish to make a report?” the Twi’lek asked.
“Yes.” Taking a deep breath, Affie pulled the datapad from her bag and handed it over. She’d thought it would feel better once there was no turning back. It didn’t. She plunged ahead anyway. “I’m reporting the abuse of indentures in the Byne Guild.”
At first, Reath waited for an invitation. None came. Finally, three days after Dez’s release from the hospital, Reath decided not to wait any longer.
When he pushed the door chimes, at first he received no response. The autofunctions had said Dez Rydan was home and awake, but that wasn’t the same as accepting guests. He could be tired. Still recovering. Reath was already turning to go when the door unsealed.
It slid open to reveal Dez’s quarters. Reath knew these were normally messier than the average Jedi’s quarters, by a power of about ten, but even Dez could only make so much mess within his first few hours out of medical care. He sat on a meditation cushion in the center of the room, a casual robe wrapped loosely around him. He’d regained the weight he had lost, and to judge by what Reath could see, there wouldn’t even be any scars.
“You look good,” he said, smiling as he walked into the room and the door slid shut behind him. “Lots better than the last time I saw you.”
“I can imagine.” Dez ran one hand through his thick black hair. “I definitely feel better. It would be difficult to feel worse.”
“Maybe this wouldn’t be helpful to you,” Reath ventured. “But for me—I’m going to have a vigil for Master Jora. Her body was lost, so we can’t have a pyre. Still, I’m going to light a fire and keep watch. Would you want to join me?”
“I can’t,” Dez said. His voice sounded remote; he didn’t quite meet Reath’s eyes. “Tomorrow I’m leaving for one of the contemplation worlds. I’m taking the Barash Vow.”
T
he Barash Vow was an extreme commitment to gaining ultimate communion with the Force. Those who took the vow spent years—sometimes even decades—in deep meditation, and in solitude. It was the last path Reath would ever have foreseen for Dez.
“But why?” Reath asked. “The Barash Vow—it’s taken by Jedi who’ve made terrible mistakes. You didn’t! You haven’t broken your connection to the Force.”
“No,” Dez said. “That was broken by the Drengir. The healers have pieced it back together again, but it’s…shaky. The cracks are showing. It won’t hold, not unless I commit myself with all my strength to renewing it.”
“But—” Reath’s voice cracked. “Is that the life you really want?”
Slowly Dez nodded. “You have to understand, the Drengir are profoundly connected to the dark side. The days I spent as their prisoner were days that damaged and tested my connection to the Force. I don’t know that I passed the test. Without you, I might have become their creature—a mindless servant of darkness. That is, if they hadn’t eaten me first.”
“You passed the test,” Reath insisted. “You’re still you.”
“Yes, I am. But there are ways in which that’s not a good thing. I’ve always wanted…action, excitement. I’ve wanted that a little too much. Jedi aren’t meant to please themselves. We’re meant to serve. Service doesn’t mean only doing what you want to do. It means listening to the Force. And I’d stopped listening.” Dez shook his head. “I know what I have to do.”
“I understand,” Reath said. “I’ve been thinking about that, too.” His resistance to the frontier assignment—that had been all about what he wanted. Not about service. Honoring Master Jora with a fire and vigil meant nothing if he didn’t honor everything she’d taught him. By taking the assignment on Starlight, she’d been trying to teach him what service really meant.
