Master & Apprentice (Star Wars) Read online

  Why not? he figured. Might as well see if she was game. He gestured toward Selbie, and she lit up as she began moving toward him.

  “Hey,” grunted a gigantic Chagrian who was obviously already drunk. His grayish-blue hand clutched Selbie’s elbow. “I was talking to her. I was getting somewhere!”

  “The blazes you were,” Selbie retorted. “Get along, then. You’ve had enough.”

  “Throwing me out, now? For that?” With his free hand, he gestured vaguely in Averross’s direction. “Muddy boots, unshaved face, no manners—that’s what you like? Believe me, I could keep you in better style.”

  “You must be new here.” Selbie pulled herself free. “Nobody keeps me. I keep myself.”

  “Give me a chance, girl.” The Chagrian tried to pull Selbie closer, but she tugged herself free of his drunken grasp. This only made him angrier. “Who do you think you are? Turning down the likes of me when you’re trash! Nothing but trash!”

  It was obvious Selbie didn’t care what insults the Chagrian hurled at her. But that didn’t mean Averross shouldn’t step in.

  Besides—he’d enjoy it.

  “Hey. You,” he said to the Chagrian. “Get out before I take you out.”

  The Chagrian’s chest swelled. If he couldn’t get himself a woman, he seemed to think a fight would be the next best thing. “Take me out, heh? And how do you think you’ll do that?”

  In a blink Averross’s hand went to his belt, seizing his weapon. His lightsaber blazed into life, its blue glow illuminating the entire room. The Chagrian froze as the cantina fell silent. Averross grinned. “Bet I could manage.”

  “Jedi,” muttered the Chagrian. Already he was shuffling backward toward the door, head bowed. “I didn’t know—you—you don’t look like a Jedi.”

  “Huh,” Averross said. “I always figured other Jedi don’t look like me.”

  “I’ll report you.” The Chagrian shook his horns, as close as he could get to being threatening now. “Jedi or not, you’re answerable to the law. The authorities will hear about this!”

  Selbie had her hands on her hips and looked like she’d never had so much fun. “Welcome to Pijal! Until our princess grows up, we’re ruled by a regent.” She gestured grandly to Averross. “Meet our lord regent.”

  The Chagrian backed out of the cantina, to laughter and jeers from the others. The music started up again, and Averross switched off his lightsaber as he turned back to Selbie with a smile.

  But that was when the holoscreen behind the bar lit up, its borders red.

  The grin faded from Averross’s face even before the image sharpened to reveal a warehouse outside the capital city, smoldering in the last stages of a fire. If Princess Fanry was watching this—and surely she was—it would terrify her. He’d have to get back to her immediately. Do these monsters even think about the people they hurt?

  While firefighting droids wheeled about, extinguishing the blaze, a label appeared at the top of the holoscreen: SUSPECTED OPPOSITION ACTIVITY.

  “Halin Azucca,” he muttered. “I’ll send her to hell.”

  “Get the door!” Why didn’t I understand what Qui-Gon meant? The guards were the problem, not the door controls, and if I’d been calm I would’ve seen that—though of course he could’ve just said exactly what he meant, and then—

  I must keep my mind on the present. The future does not exist; the past has ceased to be. Only the present is real.

  Obi-Wan forced his attention back to the Rainhawk’s controls. At least nobody could criticize his flying; there, the tasks were concrete, predictable, known. As he set the course for Coruscant, he ventured, “Did you gain any further insight about Thurible, when you two spoke?”

  Qui-Gon shook his head, a rueful smile on his lips. “Hardly. That one reveals almost nothing while hinting at almost everything. Not a bad way to develop a reputation for inscrutability.”

  You’d know about being inscrutable, Obi-Wan thought. “Thurible’s tactics make no logical sense.”

  “Oh, I’m sure they do.” Qui-Gon rose to his feet. In the small Rainhawk cockpit, his height and broad shoulders made it seem as though the ship could hardly contain him. “The problem is, we can’t judge another’s logic until we know his ultimate objective, and Thurible’s remains hidden.”

  “Master? Are you going to your cabin?”

  “I wish to meditate,” Qui-Gon replied. “Don’t worry, Obi-Wan. I won’t leave you to fly the ship the entire time. I know how you dislike it.”

  Obi-Wan laughed at his Master’s sarcasm. As Qui-Gon well knew, Obi-Wan loved flying. “I believe I can bear the burden.”

  Qui-Gon’s low chuckle was his only farewell as he walked back toward his small cabin, leaving Obi-Wan alone.

  See? He’s joking around with you. He wouldn’t joke around if he was truly disappointed in your performance on Teth.

  Yet there had been so many disappointments. So many shortcomings. The fault could not be Qui-Gon’s; he was the Master, and Obi-Wan was but the student. Even though Qui-Gon Jinn could be contradictory, mysterious, vague. Despite the fact that he sometimes did the exact opposite of what the Temple leaders would’ve counseled. If Qui-Gon was, well, unorthodox, his Padawan’s job was to gain understanding of that and adjust to it accordingly.

  In theory. In fact, Obi-Wan still could not predict when and how his Master would ignore the rules. Rarely did he understand why. And as he grew older, he became more and more frustrated with Qui-Gon’s renegade nature.

  Rules are rules for a reason, Obi-Wan thought as he stared out at the wavering, electric-blue light of hyperspace. They’re not arbitrary. The Jedi rules exist to steer us toward the greater good, and to reduce uncertainty.

  Better yet, rules could be memorized. They could be written down, studied, made certain. They were the opposite of the archaic mystical writings Qui-Gon seemed to value more than any other texts of the Order. Obi-Wan preferred certainty when it could be had.

  Most frustrating of all: Qui-Gon’s methods worked, most of the time. Whatever changeable madness he steered by, it steered him well.

  Which meant there was something important about being a Jedi that Obi-Wan didn’t yet understand.

  * * *

  —

  By the Force, I’m brilliant.

  Modesty was not a virtue where Pax had grown up, which might be why he’d never acquired it. In his opinion modesty sounded boring.

  Obviously I am not the first to study the potential of kyber crystals, Pax reasoned as he prepared to take the Meryx out of hyperspace. However, almost all such studies will have been conducted by the Jedi. Any results that could create an ever greater market for kyber would not have been shared openly. Yet possessing the crystals is not illegal on any world I’ve ever heard of.

  This might have been simply because Pax never much bothered finding out what was “legal” or “illegal” on every single world, details details, blah blah blah. That was Rahara’s department. She was a worrier, that one. Then again, who could blame her?

  “Almost there?” Rahara asked cheerfully as she returned to the cockpit. Her silky black hair was tied back from her face, which was aesthetically pleasing.

  “You know perfectly well that we’re almost there.”

  She leaned back in her chair, resting her feet on the console—a liberty Pax would’ve allowed for no one else. “And you know that pleasant conversation sometimes begins with everyone affirming what they already know.”

  “I was brought up to believe that directness is a virtue.”

  Rahara sighed. “You were brought up by protocol droids. They’re not exactly experts at normal human communication. But you could get the knack of it, if you’d practice.”

  “Waste of time,” Pax said.

  Her lips pursed, but she said nothing else. On the whole, Pax felt he should be relieved.


  He liked Rahara more than he liked just about any other biological life-form he’d known. When he’d taken her on several months ago, he’d known she was a perfect fit for the work he did, but hadn’t realized how easy she would be to get along with. Nor how pleasant it would be to talk with her, or hear her laugh. It had taken him a while to recognize that the energy between them had shifted from co-workers to friends—and then from friends to something more. One evening, as they’d shared a bottle of wine, it had seemed as though things might…as though they might get out of hand.

  So Pax had taken that opportunity to explain that, really, human emotions were short-lived and fallible, and no basis for rational people to interact. Rationality was the only thing that really mattered, wasn’t it?

  To judge by Rahara’s reaction that night, she didn’t agree. But they continued on as before, albeit with a few more awkward pauses. Pax felt he should be satisfied with that.

  Surely, eventually, he would be.

  He grinned as he put his hands on the controls and said to her, “Now allow me to present to you the happily obscure world of Pijal.”

  The Meryx slipped out of hyperdrive at standard approach distance, revealing a planet dominated by abundant blue oceans, ringed with broad green-and-gold islands at its equator and tropics. To his surprise, ancient planetary shield generators orbited Pijal, which meant a few other vessels were also hanging back, waiting for landing clearance. In Pax’s opinion, a planetary shield that ancient was probably too weak to keep out any ship larger than a Theta-class shuttle; probably the wait for landing clearance was a mere formality.

  Anyway, Pax didn’t need to go to Pijal itself. Instead he gestured at its darkly verdant moon. “Behold what I believe to be the single best source of kyber in the entire galaxy.”

  Rahara stared out at the scene before them, her face expressionless.

  “You might show some enthusiasm,” Pax suggested. “Or at least interest.”

  She said nothing, only rose to her feet. Not once did she glance toward Pax.

  Had he violated some unknown social etiquette rules? The 3PO protocol units who’d raised him had taught him how to recite etiquette rules for a thousand different planets…but very little about how to put them into practice. Sentients’ behavior was rarely clear-cut, often complex, and invariably nothing like the simulations. Pax mostly responded to this by ignoring etiquette altogether. Yet he also knew that, when he ignored the rules, Rahara’s feelings could be hurt. She was the last person in the galaxy he would wish to hurt.

  He ventured, “Ah, of course I’m aware, highly aware, that I could never have analyzed the planetary data if not for your preliminary analysis of the mineralogical tables—a brilliant calculus for the data—”

  “You didn’t say Czerka ships would be here.” Rahara’s voice was dull and flat.

  How had he missed it? Pax inwardly cursed himself as he picked out the Czerka Corporation cruiser Leverage, long and bulky, probably capable of carrying ten thousand souls. Other Czerka ships showed up on scans, indicating that the company did considerable work on Pijal and its moon. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

  “Of course you didn’t know,” she said. Her dark eyes stared at the ship as though it were an enemy; in some senses, he supposed, it was. “You didn’t check. You can’t know unless you check.”

  Pax didn’t feel it necessary to check for the presence of Czerka Corporation in every single system, regardless of what Rahara had endured in her youth. However, this was a subject to raise at another time, when she wasn’t pale and trembling, and Czerka wasn’t represented by a ship large enough to haul away a reasonably large percentage of an entire asteroid belt in its cargo hold. Doing his best to speak gently, he said only, “If you’d rather we left, there are other jewels in the galaxy.”

  “No. I don’t see why Czerka should get to keep me from a major score.” Rahara pushed up her sleeves, a gesture that usually meant she was strengthening her resolve. With a sidelong look at him she added, “Besides, if you flew away without checking for the kyber, you wouldn’t be able to stand it.”

  “I salute both your courage and your compassion for my base nature. To the moon we go.”

  Pax steered the Meryx in that direction, pretending not to notice the way Rahara stared at the Czerka vessel until it had all but vanished in the distant night.

  “Strange, the Hutts’ behavior is.” Master Yoda scratched his chin, tiny clawed hand stroking the few white whiskers there. “Yet important, I feel, it is not.”

  “I concur.” Mace Windu leaned back in his chair. “They’re petty criminals who try to appear more powerful than they are. Attacking you was a dangerous gambit, but one that fits into their general pattern of behavior.”

  Qui-Gon wasn’t entirely sure he agreed, but he let it lie. If the Hutts were going to create more trouble, the rest of the galaxy would find out soon enough. Besides, when it came to the Jedi Council, he knew he had to choose his battles.

  He chose a great many of them—though fewer, in recent years, than he once had.

  As ever, after a mission, Qui-Gon had been summoned to the Jedi Council’s chambers for his report. It was nighttime—later than the Council usually met, at least for ordinary business—and the darkness around them was illuminated by the cyclone of Coruscanti traffic and ships’ lights. Yet here, within this room, a sense of serenity prevailed. Qui-Gon relished the contrast.

  Master Billaba leaned forward, studying her datapad with a frown on her face. “It worries me, this misunderstanding between you and your Padawan. This isn’t the first time you’ve reported such difficulties.”

  Qui-Gon bowed his head slightly. “It worries me as well. Obi-Wan is strong in the Force, and eager to do his duty. The failure must be mine. Fundamentally, I fear, we are a mismatch. I’ve been unable to adapt my teaching methods to his needs, despite my best efforts.”

  Yoda cocked his head. “Adapt he must as well. Cooperation is learned not through individual effort. Only together can you progress.”

  Agreeing to that proposition—sensible though it was—would mean shifting some of the blame onto Obi-Wan, which Qui-Gon preferred not to do. He simply remained quiet. The Jedi Council had a habit of assuming that silence equaled agreement; Qui-Gon had found this habit useful, from time to time.

  Regardless, he expected the Council to eventually ask him if he wanted them to reassign Obi-Wan’s training to another Master. He’d known before this meeting began that they might even ask the question tonight, but he still wasn’t sure what he would say. The suspense seemed worse than he would’ve anticipated, maybe because he didn’t know what he wanted to answer…

  …or because the silence in the room had lasted a suspiciously long period of time.

  Qui-Gon focused his attention back on the Masters surrounding him. They were exchanging glances in what seemed to be anticipation. He straightened. “Have you another mission for us?” Maybe they intended to test him and Obi-Wan one more time before any decision about reassignment would be made.

  “Yes, another task for you we have.” Yoda’s ears lowered, a sign of deep intent. “Consider it carefully, you must.”

  Mace Windu drew himself upright and folded his hands together in a formal gesture of respect. “You may not have heard that Master Dapatian intends to retire from the Council, effective next month.”

  Qui-Gon glanced at Poli Dapatian, a Master of great renown…so much so that Qui-Gon had failed to note, in recent years, how aged he had become. “That is our loss.”

  “We hope it will also be our gain,” Mace replied. “Qui-Gon Jinn, we hereby offer you a seat on the Jedi Council.”

  Had he misheard? No, he hadn’t. Qui-Gon slowly gazed around the circle, taking in the expressions of each Council member in turn. Some of them looked amused, others pleased. A few of them, Yoda included, appeared more rueful
than not. But they were serious.

  “I admit—you’ve surprised me,” Qui-Gon finally said.

  “I imagine so,” Mace said drily. “A few years ago, we would’ve been astonished to learn we would ever consider this. But in the time since, we’ve all changed. We’ve grown. Which means the possibilities have changed as well.”

  Qui-Gon took a moment to collect himself. Without any warning, one of the turning points of his life had arrived. Everything he said and did in the next days would be of great consequence. “You’ve argued with my methods often as not, or perhaps you’d say I’ve argued with yours.”

  “Truth, this is,” Yoda said.

  Depa Billaba gave Yoda a look Qui-Gon couldn’t interpret. “It’s also true that the Jedi Council needs more perspectives.”

  Is the Council actually making sense? Qui-Gon hoped none of them had picked up on that thought.

  Mace nodded. “Yes, Qui-Gon, we’ve disagreed often. Butted heads, even. But you’ve always acted with respect for the Council’s authority, without compromising your inner convictions. This shows a great gift for—”

  “Diplomacy?” Qui-Gon asked.

  Mace replied, “I was going to say balance.”

  It was a delicate line to walk, one Qui-Gon had stumbled over on many occasions. But those occasions had become rarer as the years went on. He’d learned how to handle the Council well enough. Now, it seemed, the Council had become ready to hear him in return.

  Qui-Gon had never imagined sitting on the Jedi Council itself, at least not since he was a youngling. Dooku had chuckled once, early in Qui-Gon’s training, when they spoke of the Council. “You have your own mind, my Padawan,” he’d said. “The Council doesn’t always respond well to that.” Given how many times Qui-Gon had clashed with the Council—from his earliest days as a Jedi Knight up to six weeks ago—he’d always assumed that he would never ascend to the heights of the Order.