Master & Apprentice (Star Wars) Read online

  As she’d expected, Pax was less excited about their task. “I don’t like this.”

  “Have you ever liked anything, ever, since our journeys began? Besides finding jewels, I mean.”

  “You say that as though finding jewels were incidental to our travels, rather than the entire point. But I digress.” Despite his complaints, Pax had already laid in a course to the nearest Czerka facility and was already steering them in that direction. “We agreed to help the Jedi, not do their dirty work for them.”

  “That’s before any of us knew we’d be going up against Czerka Corporation,” Rahara said, rubbing absently at the back of her left hand. “If we’re taking Czerka on, we can’t be scared of a little dirty work.”

  Soon the Czerka facility came up on the scanners, then became visible to the naked eye. Rahara began working with instruments to zero in on as many details as possible.

  “Looks like they’ve rerouted almost all energy from this hemisphere’s solar generators straight to their own places,” she muttered. “And check out those shipment cases. What’s in those?”

  Pax examined the readings before she could. “Ores, mostly. Not stuff found near the surface, either. These mines delve deep—perhaps halfway to the moon’s core. Rather drastic.”

  Rahara nodded slowly as she recognized some of the mining droids rolling about, models she’d been familiar with since childhood. “Czerka’s willing to dig the heart out of a world, as long as it makes them a credit or two. The shafts get colder and colder the farther they drill down. Then it starts getting warm again, and you know they’re going too deep—and if they ever weaken the layer beneath you too much, the magma could boil up through it, and—” She stopped herself. “That never happened to me, obviously. But I always knew it could.”

  Once, after her escape, Rahara allowed herself to research exactly what happened to human workers in a shaft exposed to magma. She’d thought knowing the details would exorcise the nightmares she’d always had about it. That had been a mistake. The details only made the dreams more real, and more horrifying.

  “Oh, dear.” Pax leaned closer, getting between her and the dashboard. Before she could review for him the concept of “personal space” and why people shouldn’t invade it, he said, “We appear to have, ah, new workers coming in.”

  It felt as though she were back in one of the cold mineshafts again, numb all over, surrounded by darkness. “You mean new slaves.”

  He nodded. “Don’t look,” he said, in the gentle tone of voice he used so seldom. “If it will hurt you—”

  “It will,” Rahara said. “But I’m gonna look.”

  Pax grimaced. “Willingly inflicting pain on oneself is irrational—outside certain fetishistic pursuits, I mean.”

  “These people deserve a witness. They deserve to have someone who cares see exactly what’s happening.”

  Slowly, Pax nodded and leaned away from her, allowing her a view of the facility’s perimeter, where a large tram had been parked. Sentry droids were herding dozens of people into the warehouse; that was probably where they’d be implanted with the Czerka tag. Some of the people were crying, but most of them looked dazed and exhausted, unable to process what was happening to them. They had on the telltale gray coveralls, still crisp and new. Rahara had worn most of hers until they were threadbare.

  These people are criminals, part of her mind said. It seemed easier to blame these people in some way than to relive her own past. They actually did something to get in this mess. They weren’t born into it, like you were.

  Didn’t matter. Nobody deserved to live like that. No one.

  “That tram must’ve come in from the nearest town,” Rahara said. Her voice didn’t tremble; she was proud of that. “We ought to go there and check it out. Land, walk around, talk to some people. We might learn a lot.”

  Pax replied, “I bought you a gift.”

  She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. Awkward conversational segues were one of Pax’s specialties, but this one was spectacularly weird. “Since when do we buy each other gifts?” Was he rethinking the whole rational-co-workers-do-not-get-romantically-involved thing? That wasn’t something she could deal with right now.

  “I propose that we buy each other gifts,” he said, “when we see the other has a need that has not been met.” After some fishing around in the cluttered cockpit storage compartment, he withdrew a slim rectangular box and presented it to her.

  Rahara opened it, less curious than resigned, and saw—a pair of gloves.

  Beautiful gloves. Gundark leather, she thought, tinted a blue so dark it looked almost black. When Rahara slipped her left hand into one, she realized the lining was some kind of shimmersilk; it was soft against the ever-tender scar. These were probably the nicest things she’d ever owned.

  But it wouldn’t have mattered if they’d been a pair of Gamorrean underwear. The gloves were a way to protect her from Czerka, and a way to help her feel less afraid. That was what made her choke up.

  “I got them yesterday evening, when I took the Facet to pick up more supplies.” Pax looked from her face to the gloves and back again, unsure what to make of her silence. “You, ah—you like them?”

  “They’re wonderful,” Rahara said hoarsely. She gave him a watery smile. “You have your moments, Pax.”

  “Bosh,” he said. “I’m marvelous all the time. This is simply one of those occasions when you’ve noticed.”

  * * *

  —

  There were undoubtedly many, many factors Qui-Gon had taken into account when he decided to make his announcement over breakfast. Obi-Wan knew that.

  He also knew that a factor Qui-Gon had not taken into account was how thoroughly he would ruin his Padawan’s day.

  “You work for a highly unstable individual,” Minister Orth said, more than an hour after Qui-Gon had made his announcement and left. “Do you know this, Mister Kenobi?”

  Of all the complaints Obi-Wan had ever had about Qui-Gon, unstable wasn’t one of them. “This is very unusual for him,” he said, as tactfully as he could manage.

  Rael Averross had spent most of this time trying to convince Princess Fanry that this was, in fact, a very serious problem. (Fanry seemed amused by the whole thing…which, given that her elders were all losing their tempers and looking foolish, maybe wasn’t so surprising.) However, now Averross turned on Obi-Wan, dark eyes blazing. “When did he revert to his childhood, huh? When did he decide all that prophecy nonsense was real?”

  “As far as I can tell,” Obi-Wan said, “this morning.”

  Though Qui-Gon had, in fact, been talking about the possibility of a future vision for a couple of days now. His general interest in the prophecies had been growing for some months. Was it possible his Master had lost his objectivity? Even lost his way?

  Obi-Wan felt queasy. Padawans weren’t supposed to be more objective than their Masters. Their Masters were meant to guide them, to always be the stronger, surer ones. This dynamic had been reversed, and it discomfited him as much as zero-gravity had, when he’d hardly known which way was up.

  “We need to know whether the coronation and treaty ceremony are taking place as scheduled,” Captain Deren said in his deep gravelly voice. He, alone of all the people in the banquet hall, remained calm. “And we need that information as soon as possible. Otherwise, I can’t take proper security measures.”

  “It’s happening,” Averross growled. “Trust me on that. Qui-Gon Jinn is going to get his head on straight, or—”

  “Let me talk to him,” Obi-Wan said. Qui-Gon and Averross would only clash more stridently in future versions of this argument, and would make little progress. “He might share more of his thoughts with me, as his Padawan.”

  Slowly, Averross nodded. Minister Orth said, “I’m glad you understand him, because nobody else does.”

  Obi-
Wan’s heart sank. He never had figured Qui-Gon out—but today, maybe for the last time, he had to try.

  “I’m in pursuit!” Qui-Gon shouted into his comlink, hoping his voice would carry over the rush of air around his speeder bike as he swerved through jungle foliage. “Track me!”

  His voice cracked on the last word. Great, he thought, but there was no time to dwell on anything except the chase.

  He and Dooku were part of a Numidian Prime strike team, organized to find the notorious bounty hunter Shenda Mol. She collected her bounties not by murdering individuals—which would’ve been bad enough—but by sabotaging passenger ships, detonating devices in crowded public areas, or once even releasing a deadly virus. Tens of thousands of deaths on fifty different planets were, for Mol, no more than collateral damage.

  The Jedi had tracked her to Numidian Prime, where she had a small stronghold and a handful of followers. But the followers had all been apprehended now, and it was up to Qui-Gon and his Master to bring in Mol herself.

  He gunned his speeder bike, trying to fly over the thick jungle underbrush but under the heavy palm leaves. Qui-Gon’s Padawan braid streamed behind him, and he wished he’d worn goggles to protect his stinging eyes.

  No time for that. He crested the hill, which revealed the stony valley where they’d detected Mol’s hideout. Qui-Gon pulled back on speed, bringing his speeder bike to as quiet a stop as possible. From now on he’d travel on foot.

  Numidian Prime could be a swampy, treacherous world, but Shenda Mol had hidden herself on high ground. Qui-Gon could walk silently on leaves and vines that were still soft and green. Other than a few birds circling overhead, no fauna seemed to be in the area. Keeping one hand on his lightsaber, he pulled out his scanner to make sure he was heading toward the right coordinates.

  A few large, stony hills provided the likeliest place for Mol’s hideout. Qui-Gon paused at the foot of one of them to put away his scanner and prepare for an altercation. Dooku would be along any moment now, but there was no guaranteeing his target wouldn’t be—

  “Don’t move,” said Shenda Mol. She leaned against a rock formation a few meters up the hill, and pointed her blaster at his head.

  Qui-Gon went still. His hand remained on his lightsaber; against an ordinary opponent, he would’ve trusted himself to pull his weapon in time to block blasterfire. But this was Shenda Mol. She was a Falleen, with ultra-fast reptilian reflexes—and even among the Falleen, her reputation as a sharpshooter was unparalleled.

  “Tell me something,” he said, remaining motionless. “I’ve always heard you had perfect aim—”

  “You heard right.” She tossed her head; her long black ponytail fell across her green shoulder. “If you doubt it, make a move and find out.”

  Qui-Gon had no intention of making a move…yet. “If you can target any individual from a tremendous distance, why do you resort to bombs or viruses? Why do you kill thousands when you could kill only one?”

  Mol smiled. “I have a little game I play. I need more kills to win—though, of course, I’m only competing with myself. That’s the only competition that really matters, you know. More people ought to understand that.”

  Dooku would be along at any moment, he reminded himself. Master Dooku would’ve been tracking his speeder bike. All Qui-Gon needed to do was stall Mol for a brief time.

  “You’re one of the trainees, aren’t you?” She cocked her head, studying him. “Not much of a catch. The kind I’d usually throw back.”

  Qui-Gon didn’t like being called a “trainee,” but that was the least of his problems. “I’m not yet a full Jedi, no.”

  “I knew that,” Mol said. “I’ve eaten cheese older than you.”

  “I’m fourteen.”

  “Fourteen.” She hissed, as the Falleen sometimes did when they were amused. He thought it best not to respond to that.

  Mol slid over a few rocks—practically slithered—while keeping the blaster at the ready. Qui-Gon felt sure her aim hadn’t wavered for a moment. Now she was a full meter closer to him.

  She said, “What am I to do with you?”

  “The smartest thing to do would be to turn around and leave,” Qui-Gon said. “Of course, that’s what I want you to do, but it happens to be true. Others are coming. The sooner you leave, the more chances you’ll have to lose them.”

  “When you’ll just hunt me down again.”

  This, too, was true.

  Mol narrowed her eyes. “Shall I tell you of my little game, trainee?”

  “It sounds like you’re going to,” Qui-Gon replied evenly. His palm was becoming sweaty against the hilt of his lightsaber.

  “It goes like this. I’m trying to kill one target of every age. At least up to two hundred—I can’t go chasing ancients all the time. But I want all two hundred years represented. So far my oldest was a Whiphid who was one hundred and sixty-two. My youngest was four days. I count her as zero.”

  Mol said it all proudly. It turned Qui-Gon’s stomach.

  “Here’s the thing.” Her grin widened. “I’ve killed a thirteen-year-old and a fifteen-year-old. But that leaves me with a little gap. A gap you’d fill perfectly.”

  She’s going to kill me. Qui-Gon’s hand tightened on his lightsaber—he’d just have to try to block her, even if it was futile—

  A flash of light exploded from the jungle, striking Shenda Mol. She screamed in agony, dropping her blaster and tumbling down the hillside to fall to the ground. Qui-Gon could no longer see her—thick undergrowth blocked his view—but he could hear a strangled gurgling coming from her throat. Scratching against the dirt, as though she were clawing or kicking at the ground. Before Qui-Gon could ask what that light had been, the foliage rustled to reveal Master Dooku.

  “You kill the helpless and brag of it,” Dooku said, walking past Qui-Gon into the underbrush, focused only on Mol. Although Qui-Gon wanted to see his Master, to show himself, he knew better than to interject himself into an encounter Dooku had well in hand. “You think to murder my Padawan merely to fulfill your pitiful ambitions. You find yourself impressive, do you? You know nothing of true power!”

  Brilliant light flashed again, and again. Qui-Gon still couldn’t see it directly, though he could feel his skin prickling and his hair standing on end. The air tasted of ozone.

  None of that seemed to matter, not when he could hear Mol’s wretched shrieks of pain.

  Then Shenda Mol’s cries choked off. For one instant Qui-Gon thought she was dead—but then he heard her moaning brokenly. The sound wrenched him into action.

  “Master, stop.” He pushed his way through the underbrush to stand between Dooku and Mol. The assassin lay at his Master’s feet, curled in on herself, trembling. “Please. I’m all right. We’re taking her into custody. It’s over.”

  Dooku’s expression was unreadable at first, but slowly he lowered his hand. “It’s over,” his Master repeated. Suddenly he seemed almost normal again. “You’re all right, my Padawan?”

  “Yes, Master.” Every other time Dooku had saved his life, Qui-Gon had thanked him. He couldn’t now.

  What had his Master done?

  “Let me summon the others.” Dooku stepped away to speak into his communicator, while Qui-Gon remained there, “guarding” Shenda Mol as she shivered on the ground.

  NO REPLY RECEIVED

  Qui-Gon sighed at the words on the screen. Count Dooku had proved an enigma ever since his sudden departure from the Order, and Qui-Gon had refrained from contacting him since, mostly to allow his former Master some time and privacy. But now he needed his old Master’s advice more than ever. Dooku had had his own difficult relationship with the prophecies, believing in them, then casting them aside, then taking them up once more during Qui-Gon’s time as his Padawan. Surely he would understand why Qui-Gon believed in this vision so firmly. Maybe he could even help find
the words that would convince the others to listen.

  But from Serenno, he received only silence.

  The door to the bedroom chimed, signaling a visitor. He braced himself. “Enter.”

  When Obi-Wan walked in, Qui-Gon exhaled in relief. Although he was a strong-willed man who had faced down warlords and crime bosses without flinching, he preferred to delay another round with Rael Averross. The history that had led to Qui-Gon receiving this mission was now making the mission even more fraught.

  He asked, “Has the royal retinue calmed down yet?”

  “Not even close.” Obi-Wan walked past Qui-Gon, farther into the bedroom than he’d ever come before. He picked up the smooth, opalescent pebble Qui-Gon had collected from the cave yesterday. “You’re always gathering bits and pieces, of everywhere we’ve been.”

  “I like to remember.”

  “You like remembering nearly dying in a sinkhole and getting caught between two sets of blaster-wielding outlaws?”

  “Memory is, in the end, all we truly possess.” Qui-Gon took a seat in one of the tall-backed, carved chairs in the room; he suspected this would take a while. “You’re not here to discuss my habit of taking souvenirs.”

  “You’re right,” Obi-Wan said. “I’m here to ask you what in the worlds you think you’re doing.”

  “Listening to the Force. Heeding the vision it has sent me.”

  Obi-Wan’s expression darkened. “Forgive me, Qui-Gon, but it seems…terribly convenient that this vision aligns perfectly with your opinion about the Governance Treaty. Are you sure that you’re not just seeing what you want to see?”

  He didn’t understand. Maybe nobody who hadn’t had a vision of the future could comprehend how powerful it was, how persuasive, how true. “My vision may agree with my opinion, but neither one influenced the other. My objections are real. So is this vision sent through the Force.”

  “But—we talked about this on Coruscant.” Obi-Wan paced along the wall of windows, which looked out onto the cliffs at the shore. “You said yourself, the mystics’ visions of the future shouldn’t be taken literally. That they were merely interpretations of their current circumstances, projected upon the future. Isn’t that precisely what you’re doing here?”