Jedi Knight

by William C. Dietz

  Jedi Knight

  Chapter 1

  The airspeeder, a world-weary affair built from salvage and held together by incessant prayer, coughed, sputtered, and lurched through the air. It had been yellow once, but that was long ago, and large islands of rust dotted the sun-bleached paint. An outcropping of rock rose ahead.

  The machine's sole occupant had a two-day growth of beard and eyes that peered from skin-draped caves. He saw the danger, swore, and fiddled with the controls. The repulsorlift engine cut out, caught, and pushed the machine higher. The top-most spire passed within a meter of the speeder's belly. The vehicle sagged as if exhausted by the effort, and Grif Grawley patted the console. "Thata girl . . . you done good . . . real good."

  The settler peered over the side — saw the airspeeder's shadow flit across the land — and watched his gra bounce along the flats below. He knew where they were headed. The wind-sculpted hill, one of many left to mark the retreat of an ancient glacier, had triggered one of their preprogrammed instincts: "Look for the high ground when the light starts to fade — and watch for predators."

  A survival strategy that seemed natural — but was actually the result of extensive genetic engineering. Genetic engineering that had proven so reliable that gra sperm and ova were normally sold "by the herd" and came with an electronic manual. A manual that Grif had memorized during the long trip to Ruusan.

  A pile of boulders appeared in their path, and the herd split into two groups, one that followed Alpha, the dominant male, and one that trailed Beta, his mate.

  The hill was closer now, and Grif dumped speed. The speeder was fragile, very fragile, and the settler didn't fancy a fifty-kilometer walk to Fort Nowhere, the only human outpost on Ruusan.

  The speeder slowed, hovered over the summit, and settled onto skid marks left from previous landings. Grif cut power, ran the check list, and secured the tie-downs. The wind came up at night — and it paid to be careful.

  Then, with the surety of someone who has done something a hundred times, Grif set up camp. The shelter opened and locked with authoritative "snap." The combination cook chest and food locker extended its legs and stood beside the tent.

  That's when Grif opened a much-abused metal case. Components, each hand crafted from whatever Grif could beg, borrow, or steal lay snuggled within.

  He removed the assemblies one by one, held them up to the quickly fading light, and blew imaginary grit from their workings. Each unit made a satisfying "click" as it mated with the next. The object, which Grif called "Fido," was shaped like a boomerang and equipped with an assortment of sensors. The miniature flyer was designed to stay aloft all night, watch for signs of danger, and alert Grif should any appear. The machine beeped as it came to life and shivered while its gyro spun up.

  The settler checked the machine's readouts, assured himself that all systems were green, and threw the device off a nearby cliff. Fido propelled itself into a thermal, switched its power plant to standby and soared into the quickly darkening sky.

  Grif checked a monitor, verified the quality of the incoming holos, and returned to his chores. The gra were halfway up the hill by then, picking their way through the scree, and nibbling on tough, rubbery plants. A series of cliffs would hold them at that level until morning came.

  Half an hour later, with a tumbler of what the locals referred to as "Old Trusty" to keep him company and a fabulous view of the setting sun, Grif called his wife.

  Carole Grawley was expecting the call and smiled as she lifted the handset. "Grif?"

  "Hi, honey ... I'm sitting on top of hill 461 ... and everything's fine."

  Carole carried the comet set out onto the flat piece of hard-packed dirt they jokingly called "the veranda." The house, which had been dug into a hillside twenty klicks south of Fort Nowhere, faced south to take advantage of the winter sun. Hill 461 was southwest of her position, and Carole looked in that direction. "How's the sunset? It looks marvelous from here."

  Grif pictured his wife's face, still beautiful in spite of the heavily ridged scar tissue, and smiled. "It's gorgeous, honey . . . just like you."

  Carole Grawley smiled, knew he meant it, and changed the subject. "The pump's acting up again. I have drinking water, and enough for the garden, but the irrigation system is dry. The crops have started to droop."

  Grif thought about the fact that the cave farmers had all the water they could use and wondered if they were right. "Outcropping," which was the name they used to describe what he and his wife did, was much more difficult than it had been on Sulon. Of course, working down in a cave, using light piped in from the surface, had its drawbacks, too. Like being closed in. Grif took a pull from his drink. "No problem, honey. I'll fix ol' Jenny soon as I get back."

  Carole Grawley smiled at her husband's propensity for naming machinery and watched the sun disappear beyond the western horizon. "I know you will, Grif — take care of yourself out there."

  "You can count on it," Grif replied. "Be sure to set the perimeter alarms. I'll call tomorrow."

  "Love you . . . "

  "Love you, too — good night."

  With no sun to warm it, the air cooled quickly. Grif was able to see his breath by the time dinner was over and the first of Ruusan's three satellites popped over the Eastern horizon. The smugglers who built Fort Nowhere referred to the moons as "the triplets" and swore there were ruins on one of them. Not that it made much difference to Grif. He had other things to worry about.

  The settler tossed back his drink, poured himself another, and checked Fido's scanner readings. The flyer, which circled the hill at regular five-minute intervals, assured him that everything was under control.

  All 136 of the gra were accounted for, no predators had infiltrated the area, and atmospheric conditions were normal.

  In fact, the only anomaly, assuming it qualified as such, was that the planet's network of sixteen combination weather and surveillance satellites had gone off the air. Not unheard of, but unusual, especially in light of the fact that the smugglers who had placed the machines in orbit were fanatical about maintenance. Still, things can and do go wrong, and Grif assumed that the problem would be identified and subsequently fixed.

  The third moon had risen by that time and, with help from its siblings, threw a soft white cloak across the land. Grif finished the second drink, considered a third, and knew Carole would disapprove.

  That being the case, he removed the electrobinoculars from their place in the skimmer and walked to the highest point on the hill. There was very little chance that he would spot the elusive natives, bouncing and floating across the land, but he never stopped trying. What some of his fellow settlers regarded with fear and loathing, he considered beautiful and fascinating.

  Grif switched the electrobinoculars to infrared, chose a spot on the southern horizon, and quartered the area.

  Rocks, still warm from the sun, glowed green in the viewfinder. Light streaked across the screen as a bush runner dashed from one location to another. He moved the glasses farther to the right — and that's when he saw the bouncer's telltale shape. It was round, like a ball. The settler felt his pulse pound as he pressed the zoom control. The image grew larger.

  But wait, something was wrong, very wrong. The heat signature was too large, too intense, and too high in the air.

  Grif knew how much the indigs loved to roll in front of the wind, bounce into the air, and float until gravity pulled them down. They got fifty or sixty meters' worth of altitude off a good bounce sometimes, but this object was a good deal higher than that.

  So what could it be? Whatever it was had the capacity to hover —and move against the prevailing wind. Grif watched the glowing, green globe grow larger, realized it was coming his way, and felt the bottom drop out of his s
tomach. Since he could see it . . . it could see him!

  Memories flickered through his mind, memories of an Imperial probe droid that drifted through the mist, memories of energy beams that stabbed the walls of his home, and the knowledge that he had no way to stop them.

  He remembered the explosion, the flames, and the sound of Katie's screams. He remembered how Carole had tried to enter the house, how he had pulled her out, and how the structure had collapsed a few seconds later.

  Carole had been on fire by then, screaming her daughter's name, kicking and biting as he pulled her away. All because the family had taken part in a brave but futile protest against the Imperial presence on Sulon. A Rebel leader named Morgan Katarn had spirited them away — and brought them to Ruusan — but there was no escaping the memories.

  Grif watched the image grow and knew it had locked on to the heat radiating off the airspeeder. The only question was whether the droid had been launched by an Imperial vessel on its way through the system — or by a ship in orbit. The first theory was consistent with the way Imperial scout ships were known to operate, while the second would explain why the weather satellites had gone off the air.

  Not that it made a whole lot of difference, since the course of action would be the same. Destroy the probe, warn the others, and hope for the best. It was all that Grif or anyone else could do.

  The settler's heart pounded against his chest as he ran downhill, skidded to a stop, and used his hunting knife to sever the tie-downs. The speeder creaked as he climbed aboard.

  Work-thickened fingers stabbed at the controls, rows of lights appeared, and the repulsorlift engine whined into life. The machine rocked slightly as it came off the ground, faltered as energy tried to arc across two badly worn contacts, and steadied as Grif babied the controls.

  Then, with Fido still circling above, the settler took off. He stood up in order to improve his visibility and felt the wind press against his face. Moonlight gleamed off the droid's highly polished skin. He aimed for the reflection and wished he had a plan.

  "When in doubt, improvise," Grif mumbled to himself, grabbed the blast rifle racked along the port side, and removed the safety. A green "ready" light appeared as he rested the barrel on the top of the windshield and squeezed the trigger.

  The energy pulse blipped outward, missed the probe by a good twenty meters, and disappeared. Grif corrected his aim, fired again, and saw the bolt hit. The blast slagged one of the droid's sensors, took the shine off a few square centimeters of alloy skin, and triggered a preprogrammed response.

  The probe came equipped with four energy cannons, one for each point of the compass, and brought one of them to bear. The right side of the windshield disappeared as the energy beam slashed through it.

  Grif swore, put the speeder into the tightest turn he could, and saw another beam pass through the air just vacated. The fight, if that's what it could properly be called, was anything but fair. What he needed was a way to even the odds.

  The settler pushed the speeder down toward the surface. The lower he went, the more energy could be converted into forward momentum. The fact that the droid would be forced to convert more of its onboard computing capacity to low-level navigation amounted to a bonus.

  Grif knew the territory ahead — and knew the ground would rise. A ridge appeared, and he aimed for the V-shaped gap at the top. Energy strobed past, struck an outcropping, and sliced it off. The speeder passed through, banked to the right, and hugged the south side of the ridge.

  The droid burst through the gap, lost the flyer's heat signature in the warmth radiating off the rock, and switched to holo cams.

  Grif brought the speeder to a momentary halt, pulled the remote free of the control panel, and grabbed the blast rifle. Then, praying there was enough time, the settler vaulted over the side.

  His knees bent to absorb the shock, the rifle clattered as it hit the ground, and the remote filled his fist. He thumbed the "on" button, moved the slider forward, and watched the machine accelerate away. The probe altered course and fired. The bolt missed. So far, so good. Now for the second and most crucial part of the plan .. .

  Grif turned the directional knob to the right, waited for the airspeeder to respond accordingly, and swore when it didn't. As with so much of his homegrown equipment, the remote had a tendency to malfunction. He tried again with similar results.

  The probe fired, the flyer staggered under the impact of a direct hit, and Grif turned the directional knob to the left. It worked this time, the next bolt missed, and the machine trailed smoke.

  The settler gritted his teeth, twisted the control as far as it would go, and watched the speeder turn on its attacker. The droid fired, slagged what remained of the windshield, and prepared to finish what it had started.

  The speeder completed its turn. Grif centered the directional control, gave thanks when the vehicle lurched onto the correct path, and pushed the slider to max. "Sorry, old girl, but there's no other way."

  The airspeeder picked up speed, fell as the engine slipped out of phase, and struggled to rise. The probe fired, missed, and triggered a targeting laser.

  Grif stood, willed the speeder to endure another five seconds of punishment, and cheered as it bored in. "That'a baby! You can do it!"

  The droid fired and was still in the process of firing when the speeder hit, and both machines exploded. A reddish-orange flower blossomed; sent long, fiery tendrils up into the sky; and was snuffed from existence.

  Grif watched the debris tumble toward the ground and felt momentary elation quickly followed by despair. The Imperials had found Rutisan, and the dream was over. Nothing would he the same again. Life, difficult though it had been, was about to get worse.

  The settler considered his options. The smugglers had designed Fort Nowhere to withstand a force-one raid. Assuming the probe had been dropped into the planet's atmosphere by a passing ship, or belonged to a lightly armed scout, they still had a chance. If he could warn them. If they would listen. If they took action.

  His transportation was spread all over the countryside, and Fort Nowhere was approximately fifty kilometers away. Which strategy should he pursue? Hoof it? Or return to the hill?

  The comm set would be where he'd left it, sitting on top of the food locker. But what about the climb? What if he fell? A distinct possibility given the lack of climbing equipment.

  Grif sighed, hoped Alpha would keep the herd together, and grabbed the blast rifle. It made a comforting weight. He turned toward the north and started to walk. He had a long way to go and nothing better to do.

  The compartment, which was the largest the Vengeance had to offer, was almost painfully Spartan. No shelves, no pictures, and no keepsakes. Nothing but a standard bunk, a custom easy chair, and a crystal-clear bowl filled with multicolored touchstones.

  Some among the few privileged enough to enter the compartment assumed that the lack of ornamentation stemmed from the fact that Jerec was blind and presumably uninterested in that which he couldn't see. They were wrong.

  Others believed that the spartan conditions were the result of the severe discipline that the Jedi imposed on himself. They were wrong as well.

  The truth, like the man to whom it pertained, was more complicated than that. Material things meant nothing to Jerec — not unless they added to his power — for to have power is to have physical objects when and where you want them.

  Jerec settled into his chair, felt it adjust to his body, and allowed Borna's second symphony to flow over and around him. The composer had been a Rebel — and the dark, moody music the Jedi enjoyed so much had been a protest against the Imperial government. It was too bad that Borna had died so young, but art and politics make poor bedfellows.

  Jerec smiled and allowed his fingers to enter the bowl. The touchstones came in a variety of shapes, sizes, and textures. Some were smooth and cool to the touch, while others were coarse and warmed from within.

  The Jedi selected what felt like a star, positioned it unde
r his nose, and popped the casing. The scent of wild flowers entered his nostrils, formed a counterpoint to the music, and carried him away. He imagined the future, the throne upon which he would sit, and the power he would wield. All because of the planet below — and the secret hidden there.

  The knock was so soft that Jerec could have ignored it had he chosen to do so. But he knew who it was and wanted to hear her report. "Enter."

  Sariss was young, beautiful, and dressed in black. Her blood-red lips, nails, and collar made the black seem blacker. She entered the compartment, allowed the hatch to close, and waited for Jerec to speak. He ran his fingers through the stones, found a triangle, and offered it up. "For you, my dear."

  Sariss viewed the tidbit with both annoyance and suspicion. It was his way of maintaining his power over her. A game to be played. Should she eat it? Pop and sniff? She could ask Jerec, and symbolically reaffirm his superiority, or take her chances. The Jedi had tried that once before. She remembered the way the casing had split open, the stench that had filled the air, and Boc's laughter. It had been a thoroughly unpleasant and humiliating experience.

  Jerec, who could imagine her dilemma, smiled. "What? You would refuse my gift?"

  Sariss steeled herself, plucked the stone from his fingers, and popped it into her mouth. "Not at all . . . thank you for the treat."

  The stone dissolved, vanilla-flavored syrup flooded her mouth, and Jerec chuckled. "Very good! I'm impressed! Now, tell me what you learned."

  Sariss had a mind like a steel trap. She reeled off the facts from memory. "Phase one of the survey is complete. Phase two is underway."

  Sariss produced a handheld holo projector and pressed a button. A likeness of Ruusan filled the center of the room. Jerec couldn't see it —but liked subordinates to pretend that he could. It made the Jedi seem omniscient, which added to the mystique associated with his name. The image started to rotate, and Sariss used it to focus her thoughts.

  "Both the atmosphere and gravity are well within Class Three parameters. Surface mapping is 93.4 percent complete. Surface and subsurface scans reveal significant mineral deposits, including iron, copper, cesium, iridium, nickel, uranium, and a good many more. Of equal interest are seven already-exploited mines, all thousands of years old, none in production."