Star Wars: Dark Force Rising

by Timothy Zahn

  Artoo gave a somewhat bemused acknowledging beep. “Good. See you later,” Luke said and dropped back to the ground. “I’m ready,” he told C’baoth.

  The other nodded. “This way,” he said, and strode off along a path leading downward.

  Luke hurried to catch up. It was, he knew, something of a long shot: even if the spot he was looking for was within Artoo’s sensor range, there was no guarantee that the droid would be able to distinguish healthy alien plants from unhealthy ones. But it was worth a try. Yoda, he had long suspected, had managed to stay hidden from the Emperor and Vader only because the dark side cave near his home had somehow shielded his own influence on the Force. For C’baoth to have remained unnoticed, it followed that Jomark must also have a similar focus of dark side power somewhere.

  Unless, of course, he hadn’t gone unnoticed. Perhaps the Emperor had known all about him, but had deliberately left him alone.

  Which would in turn imply … what?

  Luke didn’t know. But it was something he had better find out.

  They had walked no more than two hundred meters when the driver and vehicle C’baoth had summoned arrived: a tall, lanky man on an old SoroSuub recreational speeder bike pulling an elaborate wheeled carriage behind it. “Not much more than a converted farm cart, I’m afraid,” C’baoth said as he ushered Luke into the carriage and got in beside him. Most of the vehicle seemed to be made of wood, but the seats were comfortably padded. “The people of Chynoo built it for me when I first came to them.”

  The driver got the vehicles turned around—no mean trick on the narrow path—and started downward. “How long were you alone before that?” Luke asked.

  C’baoth shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “Time was not something I was really concerned with. I lived, I thought, I meditated. That was all.”

  “Do you remember when it was you first came here?” Luke persisted. “After the Outbound Flight mission, I mean.”

  Slowly, C’baoth turned to face him, his eyes icy. “Your thoughts betray you, Jedi Skywalker,” he said coldly. “You seek reassurance that I was not a servant of the Emperor.”

  Luke forced himself to meet that gaze. “The Master who instructed me told me that I was the last of the Jedi,” he said. “He wasn’t counting Vader and the Emperor in that list.”

  “And you fear that I’m a Dark Jedi, as they were?”

  “Are you?”

  C’baoth smiled; and to Luke’s surprise, actually chuckled. It was a strange sound, coming out of that intense face. “Come now, Jedi Skywalker,” he said. “Do you really believe that Joruus C’baoth—Joruus C’baoth—would ever turn to the dark side?”

  The smile faded. “The Emperor didn’t destroy me, Jedi Skywalker, for the simple reason that during most of his reign I was beyond his reach. And after I returned …”

  He shook his head sharply. “There is another, you know. Another besides your sister. Not a Jedi; not yet. But I’ve felt the ripples in the Force. Rising, and then falling.”

  “Yes, I know who you’re talking about,” Luke said. “I’ve met her.”

  C’baoth turned to him, his eyes glistening. “You’ve met her?” he breathed.

  “Well, I think I have,” Luke amended. “I suppose it’s possible there’s someone else out there who—”

  “What is her name?”

  Luke frowned, searching C’baoth’s face and trying unsuccessfully to read his sense. There was something there he didn’t like at all. “She called herself Mara Jade,” he said.

  C’baoth leaned back into the seat cushions, eyes focused on nothing. “Mara Jade,” he repeated the name softly.

  “Tell me more about the Outbound Flight project,” Luke said, determined not to get dragged off the topic. “You set off from Yaga Minor, remember, searching for other life outside the galaxy. What happened to the ship and the other Jedi Masters who were with you?”

  C’baoth’s eyes took on a faraway look. “They died, of course,” he said, his voice distant. “All of them died. I alone survived to return.” He looked suddenly at Luke. “It changed me, you know.”

  “I understand,” Luke said quietly. So that was why C’baoth seemed so strange. Something had happened to him on that flight … “Tell me about it.”

  For a long moment C’baoth was silent. Luke waited, jostled by the bumps as the carriage wheels ran over the uneven ground. “No,” C’baoth said at last, shaking his head. “Not now. Perhaps later.” He nodded toward the front of the carriage. “We are here.”

  Luke looked. Ahead he could see half a dozen small houses, with more becoming visible as the carriage cleared the cover of the trees. Probably fifty or so all told: small, neat little cottages that seemed to combine natural building elements with selected bits of more modern technology. About twenty people could be seen moving about at various tasks; most stopped what they were doing as the speeder bike and carriage appeared. The driver pulled to roughly the center of the village and stopped in front of a thronelike chair of polished wood protected by a small, dome-roofed pavilion.

  “I had it brought down from the High Castle,” C’baoth explained, gesturing to the chair. “I suspect it was a symbol of authority to the beings who carved it.”

  “What’s it used for now?” Luke asked. The elaborate throne seemed out of place, somehow, in such a casually rustic setting as this.

  “It’s from there that I usually give my justice to the people,” C’baoth said, standing up and stepping out of the carriage. “But we will not be so formal today. Come.”

  The people were still standing motionless, watching them. Luke reached out with the Force as he stepped out beside C’baoth, trying to read their overall sense. It seemed expectant, perhaps a little surprised, definitely awed. There didn’t seem to be any fear; but there was nothing like affection, either. “How long have you been coming here?” he asked C’baoth.

  “Less than a year,” C’baoth said, setting off casually down the street. “They were slow to accept my wisdom, but eventually I persuaded them to do so.”

  The villagers were starting to return to their tasks now, but their eyes still followed the visitors. “What do you mean, persuaded them?” Luke asked.

  “I showed them that it was in their best interests to listen to me.” C’baoth gestured to the cottage just ahead. “Reach out your senses, Jedi Skywalker. Tell me about that house and its inhabitants.”

  It was instantly apparent what C’baoth was referring to. Even without focusing his attention on the place Luke could feel the anger and hostility boiling out of it. There was a flicker of something like murderous intent—“Uh-oh,” he said. “Do you think we should—?”

  “Of course we should,” C’baoth said. “Come.” He stepped up to the cottage and pushed open the door. Keeping his hand on his lightsaber, Luke followed.

  There were two men standing in the room, one holding a large knife toward the other, both frozen in place as they stared at the intruders. “Put the knife down, Tarm,” C’baoth said sternly. “Svan, you will likewise lay aside your weapon.”

  Slowly, the man with the knife laid it on the floor. The other looked at C’baoth, back at his now unarmed opponent—“I said lay it aside!” C’baoth snapped.

  The man cringed back, hastily pulled a small slug-thrower from his pocket and dropped it beside the knife. “Better,” C’baoth said, his voice calm but with a hint of the fire still there. “Now explain yourselves.”

  The story came out in a rush from both men at once, a loud and confusing babble of charges and countercharges about some kind of business deal gone sour. C’baoth listened silently, apparently having no trouble following the windstorm of fact and assumption and accusation. Luke waited beside him, wondering how he was ever going to untangle the whole thing. As near as he could understand it, both men seemed to have equally valid arguments.

  Finally, the men ran out of words. “Very well,” C’baoth said. “The judgment of C’baoth is that Svan will pay to Tarm
the full wages agreed upon.” He nodded at each man in turn. “The judgment will be carried out immediately.”

  Luke looked at C’baoth in surprise. “That’s all?” he asked.

  C’baoth turned a steely gaze on him. “You have something to say?”

  Luke glanced back at the two villagers, acutely aware that arguing the ruling in front of them might undermine whatever authority C’baoth had built up here. “I just thought that more of a compromise might be in order.”

  “There is no compromise to be made,” C’baoth said firmly. “Svan is at fault, and he will pay.”

  “Yes, but—”

  Luke caught the flicker of sense a half second before Svan dived for the slugthrower. With a single smooth motion he had his lightsaber free of his belt and ignited. But C’baoth was faster. Even as Luke’s green-white blade snapped into existence, C’baoth raised his hand; and from his fingertips flashed a sizzling volley of all-too-well-remembered blue lightning bolts.

  Svan took the blast full in the head and chest, snapping over backwards with a scream of agony. He slammed into the ground, screaming again as C’baoth sent a second blast at him. The slugthrower flew from his hand, its metal surrounded for an instant by a blue-white coronal discharge.

  C’baoth lowered his hand, and for a long moment the only sound in the room was a soft whimpering from the man on the floor. Luke stared at him in horror, the smell of ozone wrenching at his stomach. “C’baoth—!”

  “You will address me as Master,” the other cut him off quietly.

  Luke took a deep breath, forcing calm into his mind and voice. Closing down his lightsaber, he returned it to his belt and went over to kneel beside the groaning man. He was obviously still hurting, but aside from some angry red burns on his chest and arms, he didn’t seem to be seriously hurt. Laying his hand gently on the worst of the burns, Luke reached out with the Force, doing what he could to alleviate the other’s pain.

  “Jedi Skywalker,” C’baoth said from behind him. “He is not permanently damaged. Come away.”

  Luke didn’t move. “He’s in pain.”

  “That is as it should be,” C’baoth said. “He required a lesson, and pain is the one teacher no one will ignore. Now come away.”

  For a moment Luke considered disobeying. Svan’s face and sense were in agony …

  “Or would you have preferred that Tarm lie dead now?” C’baoth added.

  Luke looked at the slugthrower lying on the floor, then at Tarm standing stiffly with wide eyes and face the color of dirty snow. “There were other ways to stop him,” Luke said, getting to his feet.

  “But none that he will remember longer.” C’baoth locked eyes with Luke. “Remember that, Jedi Skywalker; remember it well. For if you allow your justice to be forgotten, you will be forced to repeat the same lessons again and again.”

  He held Luke’s gaze a pair of heartbeats longer before turning back to the door. “We’re finished here. Come.”

  The stars were blazing overhead as Luke eased open the low gate of the High Castle and stepped out of the courtyard. Artoo had clearly noticed his approach; as he closed the gate behind him the droid turned on the X-wing’s landing lights, illuminating his path. “Hi, Artoo,” Luke said, walking to the short ladder and wearily pulling himself up into the cockpit. “I just came out to see how you and the ship were doing.”

  Artoo beeped his assurance that everything was fine. “Good,” Luke said, flicking on the scopes and keying for a status check anyway. “Any luck with the sensor scan I asked for?”

  The reply this time was less optimistic. “That bad, huh?” Luke nodded heavily as the translation of Artoo’s answer scrolled across the X-wing’s computer scope. “Well, that’s what happens when you get up into mountains.”

  Artoo grunted, a distinctly unenthusiastic sound, then warbled a question. “I don’t know,” Luke told him. “A few more days at least. Maybe longer, if he needs me to stay.” He sighed. “I don’t know, Artoo. I mean, it’s just never what I expect. I went to Dagobah expecting to find a great warrior, and I found Master Yoda. I came here expecting to find someone like Master Yoda … and instead I got Master C’baoth.”

  Artoo gave a slightly disparaging gurgle, and Luke had to smile at the translation. “Yes, well, don’t forget that Master Yoda gave you a hard time that first evening, too,” he reminded the droid, wincing a little himself at the memory. Yoda had also given Luke a hard time at that encounter. It had been a test of Luke’s patience and of his treatment of strangers.

  And Luke had flunked it. Rather miserably.

  Artoo warbled a point of distinction. “No, you’re right,” Luke had to concede. “Even while he was still testing us Yoda never had the kind of hard edge that C’baoth does.”

  He leaned back against his headrest, staring past the open canopy at the mountaintops and the distant stars beyond them. He was weary—wearier than he’d been, probably, since the height of that last climactic battle against the Emperor. It had been all he could do to come out here to check on Artoo. “I don’t know, Artoo. He hurt someone today. Hurt him a lot. And he pushed his way into an argument without being invited, and then forced an arbitrary judgment on the people involved, and—” He waved a hand helplessly. “I just can’t see Ben or Master Yoda acting that way. But he’s a Jedi, just like they were. So which example am I supposed to follow?”

  The droid seemed to digest that. Then, almost reluctantly, he trilled again. “That’s the obvious question,” Luke agreed. “But why would a Dark Jedi of C’baoth’s power bother playing games like this? Why not just kill me and be done with it?”

  Artoo gave an electronic grunt, a list of possible reasons scrolling across the screen. A rather lengthy list—clearly, the droid had put a lot of time and thought into the question. “I appreciate your concern, Artoo,” Luke soothed him. “But I really don’t think he’s a Dark Jedi. He’s erratic and moody, but he doesn’t have the same sort of evil aura about him that I could sense in Vader and the Emperor.” He hesitated. This wasn’t going to be easy to say. “I think it’s more likely that Master C’baoth is insane.”

  It was possibly the first time Luke had ever seen Artoo actually startled speechless. For a minute the only sound was the whispering of the mountain winds playing through the spindly trees surrounding the High Castle. Luke stared at the stars and waited for Artoo to find his voice.

  Eventually, the droid did. “No, I don’t know for sure how something like that could happen,” Luke admitted as the question appeared on his screen. “But I’ve got an idea.”

  He reached up to lace his fingers behind his neck, the movement easing the pressure in his chest. The dull fatigue in his mind seemed to be matched by an equally dull ache in his muscles, the kind he sometimes got if he went through an overly strenuous workout. Dimly, he wondered if there was something in the air that the X-wing’s biosensors hadn’t picked up on. “You never knew, but right after Ben was cut down—back on the first Death Star—I found out that I could sometimes hear his voice in the back of my mind. By the time the Alliance was driven off Hoth, I could see him, too.”

  Artoo twittered. “Yes, that’s who I sometimes talked to on Dagobah,” Luke confirmed. “And then right after the Battle of Endor, I was able to see not only Ben but Yoda and my father, too. Though the other two never spoke, and I never saw them again. My guess is that there’s some way for a dying Jedi to—oh, I don’t know; to somehow anchor himself to another Jedi who’s close by.”

  Artoo seemed to consider that, pointed out a possible flaw in the reasoning. “I didn’t say it was the tightest theory in the galaxy,” Luke growled at him, a glimmer of annoyance peeking through his fatigue. “Maybe I’m way off the mark. But if I’m not, it’s possible that the five other Jedi Masters from the Outbound Flight project wound up anchored to Master C’baoth.”

  Artoo whistled thoughtfully. “Right,” Luke agreed ruefully. “It didn’t bother me any to have Ben around—in fact, I wish he had talked to m
e more often. But Master C’baoth was a lot more powerful than I was. Maybe it was different with him.”

  Artoo made a little moan, and another, rather worried suggestion appeared on the screen. “I can’t just leave him, Artoo,” Luke shook his head tiredly. “Not with him like this. Not when there’s a chance I can help him.”

  He grimaced, hearing in the words a painful echo of the past. Darth Vader, too, had needed help, and Luke had similarly taken on the job of saving him from the dark side. And had nearly gotten himself killed in the process. What am I doing? he wondered silently. I’m not a healer. Why do I keep trying to be one?

  Luke?

  With an effort, Luke dragged his thoughts back to the present. “I’ve got to go,” he said, levering himself out of the cockpit seat. “Master C’baoth’s calling me.”

  He shut down the displays, but not before the translation of Artoo’s worried jabbering scrolled across the computer display. “Relax, Artoo,” Luke told him, leaning back over the open cockpit canopy to pat the droid reassuringly. “I’ll be all right. I’m a Jedi, remember? You just keep a good eye on things out here. Okay?”

  The droid trilled mournfully as Luke dropped down the ladder and onto the ground. He paused there, looking at the dark mansion, lit only by the backwash of the X-wing’s landing lights. Wondering if maybe Artoo was right about them getting out of here.

  Because the droid had a good point. Luke’s talents didn’t lean toward the healing aspects of the Force—that much he was pretty sure of. Helping C’baoth was going to be a long, time-consuming process, with no guarantee of success at the end of the road. With a Grand Admiral in command of the Empire, political infighting in the New Republic, and the whole galaxy hanging in the balance, was this really the most efficient use of his time?