Exile

by Aaron Allston

  That drew some murmurs from Kyle, Corran, and Kyp. Cilghal was quick to ask, “Was this reason for Lumiya’s attack on Master Lobi?”

  Luke nodded. “Presumably. Lobi was shadowing Ben. If Lumiya did something related to Ben—spoke with him, planted a tracer on him, and so forth—she would want to eliminate witnesses.”

  “So,” Cilghal said, “this isn’t just a case of two Masters demonstrating excessive attachment to an apprentice. The situation could result in the deaths of more Jedi.”

  Well done, Luke thought. Already a salvo launched at an accurately identified problem. “Correct.”

  “But I must ask,” she continued, “whether you and the other Master Skywalker are dispassionate enough about Ben to make good decisions on this issue.”

  Mara leaned forward as if to offer an angry reply. Luke glanced at her and, through their Force-bond, reached out with a touch of caution. Mara retained her pose but did not speak.

  Luke answered, “I think so. In any case, Mara and I have very little to go on in terms of Ben’s disappearance. As of this morning, I have been unable to find Ben in the Force. Which could mean that he has learned to conceal himself; that he’s in a place, like Dagobah, where the Force characteristics of his surroundings mask his presence; or …” He didn’t finish that painful thought. “But to be sure, I call upon the Masters to speak up if ever you think we’re behaving inappropriately. I’ll be the first to admit that we need to rely on your more objective judgment on this matter.”

  “And other matters of attachment, if I may,” Cilghal continued. “Master Horn, the issues with your family are resolved?”

  Corran nodded. “All Jedi except those helping the Alliance armed forces in intelligence gathering are off Corellia, as is my wife. Though she may divorce me, since I left without kissing her good-bye.”

  Cilghal did not offer the statement that had predicated her questions. Jedi should abandon attachment. It had been a basic tenet of Jedi philosophy in the Old Republic era and earlier times. Luke had, as an experiment across the years, relaxed it, describing to his students its role in Jedi history but not insisting that it be observed by the modern Jedi generations. Having himself chosen a life with a wife and child, he could hardly rule that out for others, and these days many were formally married and often raised their own children, with varying degrees of proper Jedi detachment. He had to admit that in such cases—even in his own—true detachment could at times be nearly impossible.

  Cilghal was unlikely to offer that criticism, because she had never indicated that she believed in the absolute merit of the old tradition. But she was obviously taking her role as taras-chi very seriously.

  “Also on my agenda,” Luke said, “an update on Leia. You’ve all been patient and forward looking in allowing her to remain with Han. And I continue to think this serves both the interests of the Jedi order and the Galactic Alliance in allowing us to keep an eye on other perspectives, and on facts not otherwise available to us. Mara and I did see her during our visit to Corellian space. I wanted to put forth the idea that we continue to do so, and offer her no censure for apparently being opposed to Alliance goals … even when the Alliance continues to insist on punitive measures.”

  This time it was Kyle Katarn who brought up the likelihood of argument. Lightly bearded, a few years older than Luke, he actually looked a touch younger because he had not picked up as impressive a collection of facial scars. “You’re certain that your attachment to your sister doesn’t influence the way you’re handling the issue?”

  Luke nodded. “Unlike the situation with my son, I’m at ease with this issue, comfortable with all my decisions.”

  “The Galactic Alliance has valid points on this matter,” Katarn said. “Not necessarily a durasteel-clad case, but valid points. They’re not asking us to bring her to justice in chains. But if the Jedi order supports the Alliance, and a Jedi Knight is actively supporting the enemy, their contention is that the Jedi Knight in question should be expelled from the order.”

  “Maybe we should,” Mara said. “Once a fair trial has proven that she has aided the enemy. It hasn’t been proven yet. Her presence with Han at several events has been noted, yes. But not even Tenel Ka, the intended victim of their alleged assassination attempt, believes them to be guilty of it.”

  “And,” Kyp added, “there’s the question of whether they can get a fair trial in the current environment.”

  Katarn waved their comments away. “Considering it dispassionately,” he said, “what would it change if Leia Solo were expelled from the order? She’d continue to stay with Han, continue to provide you with crucial information—she wouldn’t stop being your sister, after all—and we could readmit her once the trial ruled for her innocence.”

  “Thereby making the Alliance government happy,” Luke said. “But would it be right, Master Katarn? Expelling her for taking the initiative and investigating things she sees that no one else does? Which one of us hasn’t done that?” No one raised a hand, and he continued, “Are you really advocating that, or are you assuming Cilghal’s role as honored debate opponent for a moment?”

  Katarn smiled, flashing white teeth. “Does it matter? The proposal has merit, or lacks merit, on its own, regardless of whether I believe in it.”

  “He’s right,” Cilghal said. “We need to analyze the proposal on its own merit, and the Grand Master’s response to it likewise.”

  “Well, here’s my response,” Luke said. “If we strip Leia of her Jedi Knighthood because of allegations, and in so doing prevent the Alliance from visiting penalties on us, penalties that could reduce our effectiveness, then we’d be doing a small wrong to prevent a potential larger wrong. But it’s not the mission of the Jedi order to do evil. Our job is to identify things that are wrong and get in their way. Even when it costs us our resources, or happiness, and our lives. That’s what I propose we do here.”

  Katarn nodded as if pleased with the answer. He turned to Corran. “Master Horn, I notice you haven’t been saying much.”

  Corran had been sitting with his brow furrowed for most of the discussion. Now he nodded. “I was under the impression that the taras-chi was some sort of bug on Kessel. Booster said they tasted like muck dripping from a badly maintained engine.”

  Mara gave Corran a scowl that all but said Not now, you idiot.

  Kyp lowered his face into his palm. “Talk about straying from the topic,” he said.

  Corran relaxed, his expression becoming more neutral. “All right. Back on topic. We’ve all been talking about dispassionate analysis in this argument. Now, I approve of dispassionate analysis. That’s how criminals get caught and convicted. But we’re also Jedi, and encouraged to trust our feelings. I just spent several days in Leia’s company, and, friend or not, I came away convinced that she wasn’t supporting Corellia, any more than she’s supporting the Alliance. She wants to find out the truth. The truth behind the war, the truth behind her son’s questionable decisions—which also reflect badly on the order, despite the fact they’re government-approved, I might add. She’s trying to identify the wrong and to maneuver herself in front of it. I don’t think that we should discourage her from that, even by a reprimand some of us consider irrelevant. I think we should trust our feelings.”

  They were all silent for a moment, and Luke wanted to cheer.

  Finally Katarn said, “I’m probably the Master present who has the fewest connections of family or long-term friendship with Leia Solo, and I formally recommend that we take no action against her for the time being.”

  The others agreed.

  “That’s my agenda,” Luke said. “Anyone else?”

  “I have something,” Cilghal said. “The war, limited as it has been so far, has increased the rate of Jedi injury … and, sadly, death. We have had no trouble dealing with the increase with our available resources. But now the war is spreading …”

  ZIOST

  Ben spent a cold night.

  In the first part
of the night, he found a low hollow spot where the wind couldn’t reach him. He rolled up tight in his Jedi robe and fell almost instantly asleep.

  Then, two hours later, he woke up, so cold that it was his own body shaking that had jarred him from sleep. He was also blind, or so he thought, unable to see Shaker less than a meter away; but when his cold-stiffened hand was able to extract a glow rod from his pocket and ignite it, he realized that he was surrounded by fog.

  Together he and Shaker clambered their way out of the hollow, and he found that the temperature rose by several degrees as they ascended the slope.

  Toward the top, he used his lightsaber to cut dead branches from some of the trees. With them and leaves he built a fire, igniting it with his lightsaber. After a few minutes of warming himself, he made a sort of nest out of snow and more leaves. Only then did he allow himself to fall asleep again.

  The cold awoke him several times during the night—and once distant screams, like a primate being tortured, jarred him from his rest. Each time he was able to doze off again, though it was to formless dreams in which dark shapes crawled close to his sleeping body and whispered into his ear in a language he did not know.

  By morning he was slightly more rested, but he would have traded a month’s service to a Hutt refresher-cleaning firm in exchange for a tent and a portable heater.

  Once the sun was up high enough to provide some sparse heat to his surroundings, he and Shaker set out again. He could still feel the distant glee.

  At midmorning he ran out of the food he had bought himself on Drewwa.

  “I don’t suppose you have anything stored in an inner compartment?” he asked Shaker.

  The droid responded with a low, negative trill.

  “Know anything about hunting?”

  Shaker gave him the same answer.

  “I mean, I’m not asking you to hunt, I was just wondering if you had any texts on hunting, something I could read. To learn how.”

  Shaker’s answer this time was a more excited series of beeps, but the R2 unit lurched forward, waddling faster. They were now at the edge of a large, snow-filled clearing, and Shaker moved into that open space.

  Following, Ben saw the reason for the astromech’s agitation. In the distance, beyond the next verge of trees, a plume of smoke rose into the sky. Someone had built a fire—and that beacon was in exactly the same direction as the sense of glee Ben sought.

  An hour later, they were at the edge of another clearing, looking at a camp. There was a tent, improvised from several bright red emergency blankets and yellow cord. There was a fire, as paltry as Ben’s own from the previous night. There was an enormous backpack, rigged from an oversized carry-sack, a few durasteel spars doubtless salvaged from the downed YT-2400, and more yellow cord.

  And there was a man.

  Leaving Shaker behind, Ben crept forward, keeping low behind snow mounds. When he was close enough to get a good look at the man, he felt a sense of disappointment.

  Faskus of Ziost didn’t look much like a protector of Sith artifacts. He was a pale-skinned human with a chin that was just two steps short of being adequate and a thick, curling black mustache that only emphasized his chin’s inadequacy. He wore gray garments that were the height of anonymity. He moved slowly, adding branches to his fire, and talked to himself, words that Ben could not hear.

  And the first time he turned in Ben’s direction—to add another handful of sticks to the fire—Ben could see that he wore the Amulet of Kalara on its chain around his neck.

  Ben froze. If Faskus knew he was here, the man could vanish from his perceptions, could track him down and kill him with little effort. Ben had to obtain the amulet without alerting Faskus.

  And that meant waiting for an opportunity …

  No. Ben was hungry now and would only get hungrier. And colder, exercise being counterproductive when an agent was trying to remain undetected. If he waited, he would either become so weak and stiff that he could not complete his mission, or he would freeze to death.

  So the situation meant that he would have to attack—and attack soon.

  And attack without mercy. Anyone who could steal the amulet and wield its power had to be formidable.

  When Faskus turned his back again, still mumbling to himself, Ben crept closer. A depression in the terrain allowed him to approach within ten meters of the tent. He could hear some of Faskus’s words: “… worry at all … got to be shelter … not bad as it looks …”

  Ben rose up to peek over the edge of the depression. Faskus had his back to him again.

  Ben sprang forward, shoving himself through the Force, giving his leap extra distance, extra altitude. In the middle of his arc, he brought up his lightsaber. As he began his descent, he ignited it.

  The sound alerted Faskus, who began to turn.

  And in the final quarter second before impact, Ben saw, beyond Faskus, sitting on blankets at the front of the tent, staring up at him with wondering eyes, a little girl.

  He was going to cut off the man’s head in front of this little girl.

  Ben landed foot-first, kicking Faskus back across the girl. Landing astride the man, he heard Faskus’s grunt of pain, heard the girl’s muffled shriek. Ben’s lightsaber cut into the tent’s top blanket, setting the edges afire. He shut the weapon off.

  Then he got his free hand on the amulet and yanked. The chain didn’t give way, and neither did Faskus’s neck. Ben swore and yanked up, drawing the chain free of its wearer. Only then did he retreat, scrambling backward from the tent mouth, and dropped the amulet into his pouch.

  The little girl squeezed herself out from beneath Faskus’s legs and looked around wild-eyed. She had dark hair cut short and blue eyes; she might have been six standard years old, and she wore a garment that was a child’s copy of an orange X-wing jumpsuit. When she caught sight of Ben, she shrieked again. She reached down and her hand came up with a few twigs and leaves, which she hurled at Ben. One stick flew as far as his foot; the rest of the debris fell well short.

  “Shut up,” Ben said.

  The girl hurled herself on Faskus. “Daddy, wake up. Daddy …”

  “Daddy?” Ben rose and moved forward again.

  The girl turned and grabbed more debris from the tent interior to hurl at Ben. This time it was a duralumin cooking pan. He batted it to one side, not breaking stride, and entered the tent. “Stop that.”

  “Don’t hurt Daddy.” She grabbed for something else—a blaster. Ben, suddenly alarmed again, tugged at it through the Force and it flew to its hand.

  It was light, too light. He looked it over. It was a child’s toy, a miniature copy of the classic DL-44 blaster pistol, like the one his uncle Han usually carried. Ben tossed it out through the opening. “Stop throwing things. I mean it.”

  The girl froze, her hand up with a fork in it.

  Keeping an eye on her when he could, Ben looked at Faskus. The man was unconscious—odd, since Ben didn’t think he’d hit him that hard. But that would help. Ben returned his lightsaber to his belt, then patted Faskus down.

  The blaster in Faskus’s belt holster was real. So were the smaller ones in his boot and in the small holster under his right sleeve. So was the vibroblade in the sheath in his left sleeve. Ben appropriated all the weapons, then looked around.

  There was a coil of yellow cord in one corner of the tent. Ben snatched it up. Then he rolled Faskus over, discovering, and appropriating, another blaster in a holster at the base of his spine, and got to work tying his hands.

  The fork hit him in the cheek, stuck for a moment, then fell free. “You’re hurting him!”

  Ben rubbed his cheek. His fingers came away with a smear of blood on them. “No, I’m not. I’m just tying him up.”

  “He’s already hurt, you’re making it worse.”

  Ben finished with Faskus’s hands and got to work on the man’s feet. “Where?”

  “His stomach.”

  Ben rolled Faskus over again and pulled up the man’s gray tun
ic.

  He whistled. An improvised bandage—thick layers of shirt cloth held on by bindings made from torn cloth strips—covered the lower left portion of Faskus’s stomach. It was soaked with blood.

  Carefully, Ben untied the strips and lifted the bandage free. A look at the blood-washed skin beneath showed him that Faskus had suffered a penetrating wound at least seven centimeters long. More blood welled from it as the bandage came away. Faskus groaned but did not wake up.

  Ben replaced and retied the cloth. He’d received training in first aid from both his Jedi teachers and the Guard, but more than first aid was called for here.

  He put his hands on Faskus’s chest and brow and sought what knowledge and feelings he could through the Force. He didn’t know much about Force healing, but Master Cilghal and his father had taught him a few things, bare necessities.

  Faskus was not strong in the Force, not strongly here. He was like a flickering candle compared with his daughter. There was turbulence from the wound. As Ben peered deeper, he sensed blood flowing where it should not. He sensed life ebbing.

  He didn’t know much about stomach wounds. Other Jedi had told him they sometimes didn’t bleed much, but that they usually hurt a lot.

  Faskus should be dead now, and it was clear that only willpower and a desire to protect his daughter were keeping him alive. And even they wouldn’t be enough for long. Ben hesitated, wondering how to tell the girl. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Kiara. Are you going to make him better?”

  “I can’t.”

  Faskus’s eyes opened. They were glassy. He tried to roll to one side and failed. His vision cleared a bit, and he looked at Ben. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Ben Skywalker. Galactic Alliance Guard.”

  “Any relation to Luke Skywalker?”

  “I’m his son.”

  “Good.” Faskus lay back and closed his eyes for a moment. Ben thought the man might die then and there, but this was only a gesture of relief, and Faskus opened his eyes to look at his daughter. “Guardsman Skywalker will take care of you from now on.”