Journey to Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker

by Kevin Shinick

  “So we’re going to Batuu, sir?”

  He nodded, keeping one eye on the stormtroopers. “We are definitely going to Batuu.”

  Together, they slipped past the soldiers and out the door before they could be next in line for interrogation.

  Later, on board the ship, they headed out to a stable orbit to rest for what should’ve been the night—if they’d still been on Merokia. Karr hadn’t wanted to bother; he was content to stay camped on solid ground, but RZ-7 reminded him of the possibility of criminals or bandits.

  Out to orbit they’d gone, with the droid controlling the ship’s systems so Karr could meditate. Ever since his grandmother had taught him how, he’d tried to make a practice of it at least once a day. He figured it was one of the ways he could learn to do the things the Jedi could do. And it didn’t hurt that it didn’t hurt. His brain, that is. But despite needing a clear head, his thoughts kept going back to Maize. He pulled out the holocomm she had given him. He patched into the ship’s holonet transmitter, plugging into the network that connected the worlds of the New Republic. It might have been a risk, but he decided it was worth taking a chance, so he called up his friend.

  She answered right away. She was sitting on her bed—or what he assumed must be her bed, since he’d never seen her room—wearing pajamas and looking like she’d just had a bath. Her hair was up in a towel.

  “How’s it going?” she asked him.

  “It’d be better if we had our rightful captain still flying this thing, but I haven’t destroyed it yet!” he said with pride. “I landed it today and everything.”

  “Really? Where are you now?”

  “Orbiting Oba Diah.” He began to tell her about all that he had found, but she jumped right in again.

  “Oh, wow—that’s amazing! I’m sorry I missed it. Well, believe me. This planet still stinks just as much as it did when we left, and now I’m on house arrest.” She sulked.

  He was appalled. “Really? They arrested you?”

  She shrugged. “Not technically, but I got suspended from school and I am extra grounded. They put an alarm on my door, Karr. Can you—ieve it—An al—”

  Karr noticed the communication cutting out. “Hey, Arzee! What’s happening out there? The transmission is breaking up.”

  RZ-7 tried to diagnose the situation but informed Karr that sometimes bad reception was just bad reception.

  “Maize!” Karr yelled, trying to get her attention. “We’re breaking up.”

  Then, suddenly, clear as a bell she said, “We are? Because I don’t even remember us dating.”

  Karr laughed. “No,” he said. “I mean I couldn’t hear you and I wanted to tell you about what I found. I think the Jedi might still be alive. And I found a piece of a puzzle. Regarding a missing Jedi Master.”

  Maize’s eyes went wide. But before she could respond, the transmission went dead. Too bad, he thought. So much to discuss. So much to figure out. But he was sure he’d have even more to share with her after visiting Batuu. Karr settled in to call it a night, even though the bright star that fed Oba Diah and its attendant desert moon was pink on the horizon line. He turned off the lights and let himself drift off to sleep, inspired by the words of the missing Jedi Master: Come find me!

  Karr and RZ-7 emerged from hyperspace. The star streaks shrank down to dots, the boy got his breath back, and the Avadora was hovering at the edge of Batuu’s atmosphere. “There it is. This is about as far as we can go, before we hit Wild Space. And out there?” He shrugged. “Who knows what’s out there, past all this.”

  “Let’s not go out there, sir.” RZ-7 locked the ship into a stable orbit, and they both sat back in their chairs. “Past all this.”

  “I’m not planning on it,” Karr said with a grin.

  “Good. In that case, let’s not go down there, either,” the droid said, pointing to Batuu’s blue-and-green surface.

  “What? Why? Is it something about Dok-Ondar’s place?”

  “Not necessarily, sir. But each time we’ve ventured out, I feel we’ve come closer and closer to peril.”

  “That’s part of exploring, Arzee. You’ve got to get used to it.”

  “I’d really rather not, sir.”

  Karr waved his hand in front of RZ-7’s faceplate and jokingly attempted to use the Force on the droid. “You will join me.”

  The droid thought for a moment and said, “All right, I will join you.”

  Karr’s jaw dropped. “Wait. Did you say that because of the Force or because you’re agreeable?”

  “Which would make you happier, sir?”

  Karr waved his hand again. “You will tell me the truth.”

  “Yes, I will always tell you the truth, sir.”

  Karr buried his face in his hands. Next time he needed to program a less congenial personality if he was going to get anywhere. “Find the location of Dok-Ondar’s place, please.”

  “Oh, I’ve already found a location for it.” The droid pulled up some schematics. “It’s inside Black Spire Outpost.”

  “Sounds like an exciting place.”

  “It might be, but we should do our best to avoid excitement, sir. We don’t need to attract attention. As I mentioned, you say ‘exciting,’ but I say ‘alarming.’ There’s not a great deal of…shall we say…rule of law on Batuu. People come and go as they like, without the eye of the First Order. Or anyone else.”

  “There’s no First Order on Batuu?”

  “Not so far as I know, sir. As I understand it, the Outpost consists almost entirely of a spaceport, a cantina, a market, and a merchant row—so on the bright side, we can probably find this antiquarian without too much difficulty. He seems to be rather notorious at this end of the system.”

  “Here’s hoping.”

  No one at the spaceport gave them any grief, and hardly anyone asked questions when they parked the ship and left it there like they owned the place. “Seems friendly,” Karr whispered gleefully to RZ-7.

  “Sir, it’s much more likely that a young man with a very nice, private First Order ship is assumed to be on the kind of business no one cares to interfere with. As long as neither one of us blows it by telling the truth.”

  “I won’t blow it if you don’t.”

  The droid nodded, then said quietly, “You must pretend you’re Maize, sir.”

  “What? I’d never pass for Maize—my skin’s the wrong color, I’m the wrong species, and I mean, come on. I’m a guy.”

  “I don’t mean you should pretend to be a girl, sir, and certainly not a Mirialan—but it’ll be worth it to pretend that you come from money and privilege. Walk straight, with your head high. Ignore questions if you don’t like them, and get offended when pressed for information. Behave as if you don’t owe anyone any explanations. That’s what I mean.”

  “Got it. That’s a good point. I have to channel my inner Jedi.”

  “When you’re not channeling your inner Maize, yes, sir.”

  Outside the spaceport, the world of Batuu was a bright blend of civilized and wild. The Outpost was surrounded by forests and hills, punctuated with the spires of giant petrified trees that gave the settlement its name. The sky was vivid blue, the forest treetops were brilliant green, and the market was a loud rainbow of stalls, squares, and alleys that held everything anyone could ever hope to buy. Legal or otherwise.

  It only took a minute or two of asking around to learn that, yes, RZ-7 had been correct—Dok-Ondar was an easy man to find.

  Or an easy Ithorian to find, as the case may be.

  The gray-green fellow walked with a thick wooden staff that he used to point when he spoke. His thin, angular neck bent up at a ninety-degree angle, into a stalk of a head with large bulbous eyes that were framed with long white lashes. He was speaking to a customer in a language Karr didn’t understand while a dark-skinned woman with a clean-shaven head translated.

  But when the customer was finished and had left, the shop was otherwise empty and Karr led RZ-7 inside. It did not
feel like a junk shop so much as an overcrowded museum. The shelves were clean and dust free, and most items were affixed with labels that explained what they were, and where they’d come from, and what they were worth. They were not merely stored but on display.

  The items themselves ran the gamut from tiny buttons and robes to statuettes, helmets, taxidermic animals, and more. It would have taken a thousand years to alphabetize it all in any language—which might have been why nothing was arranged that way. It was clustered at best, stacked carefully at worst, and every stray space was totally occupied in an orderly fashion.

  The Ithorian spoke, and the woman next to him translated for Karr. “Who are you, boy—and what do you want?”

  “Hello, sir, my name is Karr, and this is my droid, Arzee-Seven,” he said, not sure at first whether to look at the woman or the Ithorian. “A Chadra-Fan named Qweek sent us. We’ve come a long way to see your store.”

  Dok-Ondar grunted and spoke again. “Everyone comes a long way, if they arrive at my door,” the woman translated. “You must be looking for something special. How can I help you, if you have the money to pay me?”

  “We have credits,” he insisted. “We aren’t asking for charity.”

  “Good thing, too. I am a fair man, but not always charitable. What do you seek?”

  Karr bellied up to the counter. “I’m looking for Jedi artifacts. It’s for a school project,” he added, since that had worked before. It wasn’t as much fun to pretend without Maize beside him, but he liked the idea of having a story anyway.

  Dok-Ondar nodded, as if acknowledging Karr was in the right place. His eyes bobbed up and down. “Jedi. You don’t see them anymore.”

  “Right. That’s why I’m looking for artifacts. Things a Jedi might have used, or…or even encountered. Do you have anything like that in this shop?”

  “You’re going to have to be more specific,” the woman (What is her name? Karr wondered) said for Dok-Ondar.

  The droid said, “Literally anything. It doesn’t have to be in perfect condition, or expensive, or fancy.”

  “Thanks so much for narrowing it down,” he said with enough sarcasm that Karr could hear the tone before the woman translated his words. “I might have something particular in the back room that will work for you, and since you have credits, I will check. Go ahead and look around, but don’t touch anything you can’t afford.”

  “Got it. Yes, sir. Thank you.” Karr nodded his head wildly, excited because he knew he had to be in the right place this time.

  “Sir, what are you doing?” asked RZ-7 as his master wandered off.

  “Don’t worry. I’m just looking. This guy is the real deal, Arzee. This isn’t like Plutt’s storage room at all.” He took his gloves off and shoved them into his pockets.

  “Do be careful, sir.”

  “I’m not going to break anything.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of suggesting it.”

  Down one row and then another, he followed his intuition and a tingle in his fingertips that might or might not have been imaginary. From time to time he glanced down at his feet to make sure he wouldn’t trip as he navigated the shelves that reached from floor to ceiling.

  Soon he was standing before a mask.

  No, a helmet.

  It was the color of dry bone, with an abstract design on the face and two small slits for the eyes.

  “Have you found something, sir?”

  “Arzee, the tag says it’s a Temple Guard helmet. Do you think the Jedi had their own temple? I have to touch it.” Before the droid could dissuade him or the Ithorian merchant could return, Karr gently, lightly touched the pale blank face on the shelf. Lightning flashed behind his eyes.

  A sea of white. No. A wall of white. Moving toward him.

  He blinked hard.

  Not a wall. Men. Troopers. Clone troopers marching in formation, but divided in the middle by something black. The men moved with purpose. With precision. More like a ceremonial procession than a battle. A parade, maybe? Or an exercise? Karr could only make out their movement. The colors were sharp and then dull. Karr focused hard, concentrating for all he was worth, and left two fingers on the mask—daring it to give him more and silently promising that he could take it.

  The guard wearing the mask saw them approach. But there was no feeling of danger. There was only familiarity. Karr squinted to see more, but he couldn’t. But the guard saw who led the troopers. The figure in black. The driving force. Somehow Karr knew that, knew also that the guard was confused. Under his breath, behind the mask and for only himself to hear—except Karr could hear it, too—the guard said, “Skywalker?”

  Then all hell broke loose.

  Skywalker ignited his lightsaber and cut the Temple Guard down.

  Karr could hardly believe it, and he didn’t understand it; he wanted to look away, but there wasn’t time, not even in a vision. Skywalker, if that was him, moved too swiftly, his violence as baffling and brisk as a magic trick. Blasters fired. Lightsabers swished. Bodies fell. People screamed. It was so hard to focus on any given detail, any given moment. The whole scene was a jerky, pale watercolor blur.

  Karr gasped and released the mask, stumbling back into another shelf—but RZ-7 caught him and kept him from wreaking any havoc or ruining any of the pricey stock.

  “Sir, are you all right? What did you see?”

  “I don’t…I’m not sure. It was…it was bad, Arzee. Something went wrong. Really, really wrong.” He gasped and clutched the sides of his head, as if he could use the Force to calm the pain. Slowly, he got his breathing under control and the pain along with it.

  Did it still hurt? Yes. Could he see without feeling spikes behind his eyes?

  Also yes. Improvement all around. But was it worth seeing what he’d seen?

  Dok-Ondar emerged from whatever back room or storage space he’d vanished into, holding a large glass case, the woman once again at his side. He barked at them, and the woman translated for him. “What have you done? Have you broken anything?”

  The droid answered to buy his master a few extra seconds to gather his thoughts. “All’s well, sir. We were merely exploring. Karr has found this fascinating helmet, and we were hoping you could tell us more about it….”

  “Ah, the helmet of the Temple Guards,” the woman translated for the Ithorian. “So you do know some Jedi lore.”

  Karr wasn’t about to argue with him, so with all the composure he could muster, he said, “Yes, sir, I find it fascinating. Are you sure this came from the…Temple?”

  “The Jedi Temple, yes. Or it came from one of the fellows who guarded it, at any rate. As I’m sure you’re aware, the guards were rendered anonymous with these helmets and their ceremonial robes—but I do not have any of their robes to sell, I fear. Nothing to go with the helmets, I mean.”

  Karr couldn’t believe he could be so rattled by something that happened so long before. He took a few more deep breaths and tried to remind himself that no one else in the room took the journey with him. And that he needed to relax.

  “It’s a shame,” agreed Karr finally. His vision had almost settled down, and he was hardly seeing double at all anymore. Seeing double! he thought. It reminded him of the clue he got from Nabrun Leids regarding the twin suns. He thought for sure the Ithorian might know of the planet he was seeking. “Sir, do you—”

  But the master collector was already on to another thought. “Let me show you what I found in the back,” he said through his human translator. “I’ve found something of interest to you.”

  Karr was polite but was also intent on getting his question out. “Do you know of any planets that have twin—

  “Lightsabers,” he said with a gasp as the collector placed his case on the counter. “You have lightsabers!”

  In an instant, Karr forgot all about everything that came before and focused on what was in front of him. “Real lightsabers!”

  “A number of them, yes,” Dok-Ondar said, drawing his long fingers across
the glass case with a lock on it. Inside the case on a bed of protective foam and fancy cloth, Karr saw at least half a dozen deactivated lightsabers, lying side by side. He pressed his bare hands against the glass.

  “Please, can I see them?”

  “That’s what the glass is for,” the woman translator said in as dry a voice as possible.

  Diplomatically, RZ-7 said, “Ah, yes—but my friend would prefer to hold one, so he can examine it more closely.”

  “Please, sir?”

  But the Ithorian shook his head; it bobbed back and forth on his long neck. “These weapons are precious and dangerous,” the woman translated. “They are for serious collectors or those who wish to train in the old tradition…if they have the money to do so.”

  Karr tried to do as RZ-7 had advised and act both entitled and offended. “Sir! I have plenty of credits, I’ll have you know! Do you always insult your customers this way?”

  “Only the ones who arrive in off-worlder clothing, looking hungry and…smelling as if they could use a bath.”

  “I beg your pardon!”

  The merchant said, “And I beg yours, but I’d prefer to see your credits before I let you see these swords. If you were truly a wealthy collector, you’d know that is standard.” He stroked the glass case and stared at the boy thoughtfully. “Perhaps if you told me the truth about why you wish to hold these things, then we could come to some kind of arrangement.”

  Karr insisted, “I told you the truth—it’s for a project at school. And…and I’m very interested in the Jedi and their teachings, and their traditions. I only want to learn, sir. That’s all.”

  Dok-Ondar craned his neck so his narrow face hovered above Karr’s head. “Just for knowledge, huh? So you do not wish to become a Jedi?”

  Karr was taken aback. “It’s not like that.”

  “Isn’t it? Be careful, young man. These are complicated times. You must be wise about the world in which you are unleashing your desires. You do not want the weight of it upon you if you cannot withstand the pressure.”