Master & Apprentice (Star Wars) Read online

“I saw the treaty ceremony.” Qui-Gon’s voice was low, contemplative. “As vividly as though I were there, or more so. Yet there were surreal elements—screaming, blood. A vision of my lightsaber, brought up as though to block an attack. But maybe it was the treaty itself I was meant to be blocking.”

  Obi-Wan worded his response carefully. “That does sound rather…symbolic.” Surely that was safe to say. Many dreams were symbolic.

  To judge by his heavy sigh, Qui-Gon must’ve sensed Obi-Wan’s uncertainty. He didn’t seem to blame him. “Perhaps this is madness, or at least hubris. To believe that the Force is at work in all this. That it would be at work in me.”

  “The Force is in all things, Master.” That much, Obi-Wan felt sure of. “I can’t tell whether it has anything to do with your dream—yet it is present, guiding us, if we listen.”

  “Very true. But whom, or what, do I listen to? Can it possibly be that I should listen to my dream?”

  Obi-Wan summoned his courage. “Right now, your dream agrees with your conscious mind. So I don’t really see the conflict.”

  Qui-Gon shook his head, not at what Obi-Wan had said, but perhaps at some unheard dialogue within his own mind. “Visions from the Force always have a meaning deeper than what first appears. If this is a vision…then I must find what is hidden within it.”

  Qui-Gon sat in Dooku’s quarters, alone in the dark, except for the light of the holocron.

  Many months had passed since that fateful history assignment. Receiving top marks on his essay had only spurred his fascination. The prophecies had become nearly an obsession with him.

  But it was an obsession not unlike those of other Padawans his age—who would review lightsaber holos for hours on end, or follow their favorite racer pilots and boast in any victories. Qui-Gon never spoke of it, not out of any sense of shame or wrongdoing, only because Rael had suggested Master Dooku’s opinions about the prophecies and mystics were complicated.

  Had he been afraid of being caught, he would’ve been more cautious. He wouldn’t have taken the holocron to Dooku’s quarters to study it in private. And certainly he would never have become so enraptured with the prophecies that he lost all track of time and was still at it when Dooku returned home. When the door slid open, Qui-Gon turned to say hello to his Master as usual. Only the expression on Dooku’s face told him he’d made a mistake.

  “What,” Dooku said, pronouncing every word distinctly, “is the meaning of this?”

  By now Qui-Gon knew it was better to admit any mistake or doubt to Master Dooku immediately; he respected forthrightness, and besides, he’d always figure it out in the end. “It’s the holocron of prophecy, Master. I studied it for a class project, and since then I’ve been—” What was the right word? “—interested.”

  Dooku came into the room then, shrugging off his dark robe. He stared at the holocron, not with anger, but with a fascination Qui-Gon recognized. “Padawan, such knowledge is…tempting, but it is also dangerous.”

  “Why? I know you said wanting to see the future could lead to the dark side, but I don’t think it’s doing that to me.” Like any other adolescent with an obsession, Qui-Gon dug in. “It’s even made me a better student! You can ask my history teachers, both Jedi history and galactic—”

  “Your teachers’ opinions are irrelevant in this matter. They don’t know the prophecies as I do. They haven’t studied them as I have. They cannot know the risks.”

  Even as Dooku pronounced such dire judgment, he kept walking toward the holocron. Its glow fell on him as he stared at it. Qui-Gon couldn’t read that stare. Was his Master in pain? Was he in awe? With Master Dooku, those reactions weren’t so different.

  “I’ll take the holocron back,” Qui-Gon promised. That was the only thing he could think of to do. “I won’t ever bring it here again, I promise.”

  “My worry is not that you’re studying the holocron here, it’s that you’re studying it at all,” Dooku said. He didn’t sound as angry anymore, though. Maybe he was calming down. Qui-Gon hoped so. “You’ll keep looking at it, won’t you? Regardless of what I tell you.”

  Disappointment made Qui-Gon slump in his chair. “I won’t disobey you, Master. If you tell me not to study the holocron, I’ll leave it alone for as long as I’m your Padawan.”

  Dooku drew himself upright, folding his arms. “Which means you’ll study it thereafter?”

  Qui-Gon hadn’t thought that far ahead, but now that he did—“Maybe,” he admitted. “If I’m still interested.”

  “You will be.” Dooku walked away from him, staring out the window at the bustle of Coruscant.

  After a long pause, Qui-Gon realized his Master would say nothing more. He closed the holocron and left Dooku’s quarters, determined to go straight to the Archives with it, and never to disappoint his Master again.

  * * *

  —

  That night, however, Qui-Gon couldn’t rest.

  The holocron contains the prophecies. And the prophecies tell us the future. How could anyone not want to know the future, if they could? He flopped over in his bed, groaning. That isn’t the dark side. That’s just being awake, isn’t it?

  Qui-Gon had already made so many connections that he thought might be borne out. It was a mistake, he thought, assuming that the prophecies still referred to his future; they’d been made nearly ten thousand years ago, and surely some had since come to pass. The prophecy about the woman who was born to and would give birth to darkness—that might refer to an ancient duchess of Malastare whose father had waged wars that were vicious even by Malastarian standards, and whose daughter had become a Dark Jedi. Another prophecy said the Sith would disappear yet appear again. Most of the notes on this prophecy interpreted it as the potential reincarnation of the Sith Order, but Qui-Gon wondered whether it might not be referring to a specific Sith, a legendary Darth Wrend, who had been believed dead but returned to wage war against the Jedi once more…

  But he shouldn’t even be thinking about that. Not if he wanted to be a good apprentice to Dooku.

  Qui-Gon pulled his blankets over his head and tried to go to sleep.

  * * *

  —

  The next morning, sleepy and grumpy, Qui-Gon made himself presentable and headed to Dooku’s quarters. He expected another lecture, and maybe even some extra duties as penance. As my Master wills it, he thought to himself.

  But when he walked through the door, he saw Dooku sitting at the same table Qui-Gon had been sitting at the day before—with the holocron of prophecy open in front of him. In its golden light, Dooku’s face looked younger than Qui-Gon had ever seen it.

  “Padawan,” Dooku said. “It occurs to me that if you’ll be studying this anyway—it only makes sense for you to do so with the proper guidance. Someone to make sure you don’t go too far.”

  Qui-Gon grinned. “You mean, you’ll teach me yourself?”

  “It’s my responsibility,” Dooku replied. “As your Master.” He never looked away from the holocron.

  “All hail Her Serene Highness!” called the tribune.

  Cheers rose from the crowd within the central metropolitan dome of the capital city—a gathering as large and cheerful as any Rael Averross had seen in his eight years on Pijal.

  He’d personally seen to it.

  Averross stood on the hover platform with Fanry, watching her wave to her subjects. She had been kept sequestered in the palace complex for most of her youth, meaning she was still somewhat awkward at such huge public gatherings. It was perhaps Averross’s final duty as regent to help Fanry get accustomed to the role of queen. Even a constitutional monarch had to be able to own the spotlight.

  Certainly Fanry looked the part. Her dress and headscarf were a pale enough green to meet Pijali standards of outer plainness, but the rich gold embroidery glinted subtly in the dome lights. She held herself proud and tall�
�well, as tall as the little thing could manage. Cady helped her up on a step, where the princess could be better seen by the crowd.

  The rally had been extensively promoted—Averross had seen to that—and Czerka Corporation had even been sharp enough to offer free transportation for those from outer provinces. Many of these cheering, flag-waving citizens had bustled off Czerka ships just a few hours ago, eager for their first trip to the capital dome. And every single one of them had been searched and scanned. No slicer darts would get inside today.

  Cam droids hovered around the platform, getting good footage of the striking young princess who would soon be Pijal’s queen. Averross had made good and sure none of them focused on him for long. It had been a long time since public attention had been welcome.

  In his mind, a memory flickered: The Council chambers. Yoda shaking his head sorrowfully. “Mourn we, Nim Pianna’s death. Too soon, and unnecessary it was.” Walking along the Temple corridors afterward, stares burning into him like lasers, hearing echoes of Nim in the voice of every Padawan, his already depthless anguish somehow made worse by the knowledge that every single person around him blamed him as much as he blamed himself—they’d never wanted him here, never thought he belonged, and his failure had proved them right—

  Averross snapped out of it. This wasn’t about Nim, not any longer. It was about Fanry.

  Guard platforms hovered around the edge of the crowd as the royal orchestras began warming up for the celebration concert. Captain Deren rode atop the largest one, his vigilant eyes forever examining the perimeters. As Averross watched, Deren suddenly straightened, as though in alarm—then relaxed. Averross followed the captain’s gaze to another platform that had just entered the arena. Good. It’s just Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan. Maybe they’ve had some luck up there on the moon, dragging Opposition scum out in the open.

  Once Fanry had been guided to the royal box, Cady carrying her train, Averross gestured that he’d return later. Listening to fancy music never was one of his favorite pastimes, and he wanted to hear what Qui-Gon had learned.

  So he thought.

  * * *

  —

  “And you believed that?” Rael said, pacing in front of Qui-Gon. “A bunch of blaster-carrying thugs surround you in the forest, and then they tell you they’re not actually dangerous, and you bought every word of it?”

  “I’m not naïve,” Qui-Gon replied. “Obviously Halin Azucca’s story has to be thoroughly questioned. But a group of performance artists isn’t what I’d call ‘thugs.’ And everything she said fits the fact patterns we’d observed before.”

  Rael shot back, “You mean, the lady knows how to tell a really good lie.”

  Qui-Gon had known this would surprise Rael; he hadn’t understood that it would enrage him. He took a moment to be grateful that he’d sent Obi-Wan back to the palace; apparently he’d need to draw on their old friendship to get through to Rael at all, and that was more easily done with his apprentice absent.

  However, Obi-Wan had accompanied Qui-Gon as far as the dome perimeter, so he, too, had seen the jarring artificiality of this ceremony. Protesters were relatively few, but they’d been cordoned off into an area that allowed them no access to the interior of the dome. The final attendees had been filtering in as he and Obi-Wan arrived, collecting flags, banners, and other previously prepared items to show their support for the princess and the Governance Treaty. To judge by their smiles, Qui-Gon suspected the attendees genuinely were happy about the coming changes—but this group had nonetheless been carefully curated to present a uniformity of opinion that didn’t actually exist.

  How many of the Pijali understand Czerka’s role in all this? he wondered. How many of them have lost friends or relatives to slavery? Probably a great many, none of whom were inside the dome.

  Rael had brought them to an antechamber at the rim of the dome for their conversation. It was a small space, cramped and claustrophobic. Or maybe it just felt that way, with Rael’s fury so great that it drew the air out of the room.

  “They admitted they were behind some of it,” Rael said, still pacing. “Admitted it. And you’re still trying to give them a free pass.”

  “They admitted to political stunts. Not any acts of violence. And as I see it, the fact that they admitted to some crimes makes their denial of the others more persuasive, not less,” Qui-Gon said.

  Rael’s first response was a sneer. “As you see it. You always had a weakness for seeing what you wanted to see, Qui-Gon. Always were a soft touch for a sad story. Halin Azucca sized you up pretty good.”

  This wasn’t entirely untrue. Qui-Gon refused to be ashamed of it. “I attempt to understand the viewpoints of everyone I deal with. That’s not a weakness. It’s how I operate. And I’ve learned more that way than I ever would by being too quick to cast blame.”

  “Best-case scenario, they’re still criminals,” Rael retorted, “and I don’t believe in her best-case scenario. So why are you in here arguing their case?”

  “Because I’ve undertaken a preliminary review of the treaty, and it appears to me that many of the Opposition’s criticisms are well founded. If the phrase ‘preserved as the sun preserves the moon’ means what she claims it means—that it means forever, beyond amendment—then the treaty is deeply flawed.” Qui-Gon currently had Obi-Wan doing a much more thorough review, so tomorrow he’d be able to raise specific objections. For today, he just wanted to get Rael to listen. “There isn’t much representation of lunar citizens in the proposed Assembly—”

  “The moon is ruled by Pijal! Always has been!” Rael’s voice had taken on a thick veneer of contempt. “Since when does our mandate as Jedi allow us to change the way things have always been done on a planet?”

  “You’re lord regent, Rael. The Council wouldn’t have named you to the position and expected you to do nothing. Your mandate is to help govern a world! And if you’re willing to shift from an absolute monarchy to a constitutional one, why shouldn’t the status of lunar citizens be reexamined as well?”

  “Because that’s not how things work here. Fanry’s still going to be queen, of both Pijal and its moon.”

  Rael was smarter than this; his zeal to preserve Fanry’s power and status had gotten the better of him. Qui-Gon had to find a way to get past his anger. Then, perhaps, Rael would listen. He needed to turn the discussion to something further from the princess.

  “The treaty tacitly gives Czerka Corporation immense power,” Qui-Gon began. “Their contracts will effectively be enshrined in law.”

  “So what? Czerka might be even older than the Republic. They’ve got contracts all over the galaxy. That’s probably never going to change, not on Pijal or anywhere else,” Rael said.

  “Czerka’s not in charge of the penal system all over the galaxy. They’re not claiming every planet’s citizens as forced labor.”

  Rael scoffed. “Pijal’s hardly the only planet that punishes crime with long terms of labor.”

  “That doesn’t make it right,” Qui-Gon said. “And this isn’t just ‘long term.’ It’s permanent.”

  This made no impression. “Is this your first time on the fringes of the Republic? Is this seriously the first time you’ve seen proof that this exists? Because, if not, I don’t know where this attitude is comin’ from.”

  Qui-Gon paused. “Punishing crime with forced labor isn’t traditional on Pijal. You yourself just said, you’re not here to change the way things have always been done—”

  “And you yourself just tried to make me change things!” Rael’s face had flushed as deep a red as it did in battle. “Listen, Qui-Gon, you’re not here to help draft the treaty. That’s already been done, and done well, with no assistance from you. You’re here to make sure the treaty gets signed. Because until that treaty is signed, Fanry doesn’t have the authority to make permanent agreements with other worlds. Once the new Assembly has that
authority, they can establish the hyperspace corridor. And once that’s done, Pijal has a new future. Fanry can rule on a world that’s safe, and stable, and prosperous. I’ve done everything in my power to create that for her, and I don’t understand why you want to interfere with that.”

  Qui-Gon waited several seconds before responding. “As you said, the treaty’s already been drafted. Who drafted it, Rael?”

  That finally made Rael pause. “Okay, so, we had some help from the local Czerka supervisor. But Meritt Col’s solid. She’s done a lot of good on Pijal—”

  “Perhaps, incidentally,” Qui-Gon said. “But I assure you, she’s only ever been working for the benefit of Czerka Corporation. Not for the good of this planet.”

  “In this case, they’re one and the same,” Rael insisted.

  Qui-Gon held on to his temper only with the greatest difficulty. “That’s not possible.”

  Music began filtering into the room from the dome; apparently the orchestra had begun playing the triumphal symphony composed for Fanry’s coronation. The gentle strains of the overture almost seemed to be mocking their anger.

  Rael finally said, “Czerka’s authority helps the treaty. The treaty helps Fanry hold on to the most important parts of her royal power while allowing her to finally have a halfway normal life. So I’m not backing down.”

  “Your role as lord regent is about more than protecting the princess.” Sorrowfully, Qui-Gon shook his head. “You have a responsibility to all the citizens of Pijal, including those who live on its moon.”

  “You know who I don’t have a responsibility to? Terrorists that have already bombed multiple municipal buildings and are going to try to interfere with the treaty—the same treaty that’s going to guarantee a good future for Fanry and for Pijal.” Rael lifted his chin. “And I don’t have a responsibility to anybody who tries to get in the treaty’s way.”

  A rap on the door startled them both. Qui-Gon turned to see Meritt Col walking in, wearing her best suit and an obsequious smile. “Lord Regent. The music has already begun. We’re expecting you in the Czerka box—since, after all, you wanted Fanry to have the spotlight to herself during the concert—”