Star Wars, page 16
Not long before, some bright-eyed diplomat or senator had gotten the idea that they’d be able to pump up their own career by achieving a long-sought and long-lasting peace on Teriona. They gathered a team, came to the world, and were promptly taken hostage by the locals. Bell and Loden were sent to retrieve them. (Well, just Loden, really, but where Loden went Bell tagged along, as his Padawan learner.) The negotiators were safe, rescued without incident by the Jedi and sent home on a transport, but their mission was an obvious, catastrophic failure. Peace had most definitely not been achieved.
Loden turned to look out across the town, a place called Strop’s End—quiet now but liable to erupt into violence at any moment, as had been the case for the week Loden and Bell had been there, and the year before that, and the century before that. Loden’s dark-green skin made his head just a silhouette against the night, but his eyes glinted in the firelight.
“The Jedi Council think we’re done here, Bell,” Loden said, in a particular tone of voice his Padawan recognized all too well. “But here’s the thing.”
When Bell’s master spoke that way, it meant Loden Greatstorm was about to do one of the things that had given him his reputation as one of the most formidable Jedi of the age. Those things tended to work out in the end, but while you were in the middle of them, they felt like flinging yourself into a river churned by white water, with no control, bouncing off boulders and being tossed over cataracts and . . .
Bell had learned something very early in his time as Loden Greatstorm’s Padawan.
You just kind of had to let it happen.
“All Jedi walk their own path,” Loden said. “The way we help people, the way we interpret the Force and serve the goals of the light. . .when all is said and done, Council or no, we must guide ourselves.”
He pulled his communicator from inside his robes. The device was small but powerful, designed for long-range messaging, able to tap into the ever-growing galactic communications network that was one of Chancellor Lina Soh’s Great Works. It was also, incidentally, the only way the two Jedi could reach the Jedi Council to request a pickup or backup, or be anything other than completely isolated on this bizarre, fractious world.
“So, Bell, in my opinion,” Loden said, “which is the only one that matters, as you are my student and have to do whatever I say . . .”
He tossed the comlink into the fire. With a hiss and a sizzle of sparks that Bell watched with a sense of resigned, utterly unsurprised dismay, the device was destroyed.
“. . . I don’t think we’re done here yet.”
Bell Zettifar stood at the edge of a cliff on the world of Eiram, overlooking a great slate-dark sea. This was the place his friend Burryaga had, or had not, died.
He held out his hands. In his left, his Jedi communicator. In his right, a lightsaber.
A few long seconds later, a small sound from far below, one Bell might have imagined.
He tucked Burryaga’s lightsaber into his Padawan sash, tied back his braids with a string, then began making his way down the path leading off the cliff.
There was work to do.
That first night on Teriona, Bell fell into an uneasy sleep. Their shelter was a tent, erected from the supplies left them by the transport that had whisked the Republic negotiators to safety. It offered protection from moonlight and not much else. Even the bugs didn’t find it much of an impediment.
But any Padawan of Loden Greatstorm, like soldiers and sailors, learned to find rest wherever it was offered. As soon as Loden released Bell for the day, he crawled into his blankets and sought blessed unconsciousness. Loden stayed outside by the fire, brooding into the embers. Bell assumed he was busy considering how two Jedi (one still in training) might bring peace to an entire world all by themselves when generations of Republic efforts had failed. Half a moment after that thought crossed Bell’s mind, the Padawan was asleep.
And then, he was awake.
“Bell,” came Loden’s voice: a short, insistent snap, “now.”
The sound of his master’s instruction yanked Bell into full awareness with no break between dream and reality. His eyes beheld a bright yellow glow shining through the tent fabric, and for a moment he was pleasantly surprised at the notion he had been allowed to sleep well past sunrise. Then his perceptions dialed in, and he realized the source was a single bar of bright yellow light, about a meter long, outside the tent. A low buzzing hum accompanied the light as it swept back and forth, and Bell understood that it was not dawn at all.
Loden Greatstorm had ignited his lightsaber.
Bell reached for his own and, moving quickly, slipped through the tent flaps into the cold night air, rolling, coming up with his own saber lit and burning emerald, pushing back the dark.
“What is it, Master?” he said, moving to stand near Loden, putting his back to his master. He scanned the area surrounding their camp, keeping his eyes away from his blade to preserve his night vision.
“Locals, I think,” Loden said. “Come to run us off.”
“Run us off?” Bell replied, his voice cracking a little. “Do you mean. . .kill us?”
“They can’t kill us, my Padawan. As they are about to learn.”
Loden shifted his feet, and Bell risked a quick glance back—his master had chosen a defensive stance, the kind Jedi used when guarding a gate or path. A “you’re not getting past me” approach. Bell did the same.
The stance was a form of communication. It told Bell what his master wanted him to do. Defend. Deflect. Disarm.
The first bolt flashed out of the darkness, a line of deadly crimson streaking from the edge of the forest that surrounded the hilltop, right at Loden. He flicked it away with a tiny motion of his lightsaber blade, sending it high into the night, pointedly not back at the person who had fired it.
In the way a single drop of rain falls a moment before the deluge, blaster fire poured from the darkness, arrowing toward the two Jedi, all aimed well, all killing shots. None found their mark. Bell fell into the Force, sending every shot away with his saber, knowing that he was not only protecting himself but his master, too. Each bolt Bell deflected was one that didn’t get past him, didn’t stab through Loden Greatstorm’s exposed back.
In the same way, Loden protected Bell, master and apprentice using all their skill to preserve life.
It was exhilarating. There was no Bell Zettifar; there was no Loden Greatstorm—there was only the Force, the small-but-steady flame of Bell merging with the greater fire that was Loden to create a roaring blaze that shone out into the night, pushing back all darkness, all death.
Loden lifted his left hand, and a grenade shot high into the air well before it reached him, exploding many meters above the battle, casting light down from the treetops, illuminating the silhouettes of their attackers for a few short seconds. Half a dozen, crouched low, using cover well—clearly experienced warriors—though on Teriona only newborns lacked experience of war.
“I wouldn’t try that again, friends,” Loden called as the sound of the explosion faded. “I caught that one in time, but all this shooting’s pretty distracting. I’ll catch the next grenade, too, and every one you toss at us—it’s about whether I have time to throw it up. . .or if I’ll have to throw it back.”
Another barrage of blaster fire, and every bolt was knocked away, up into the air. Defend. Deflect.
“I get it,” Loden said, his voice as calm as if he were strolling a promenade at the Jedi Temple. “You don’t like us, and you want us to leave. Well, we’re not going to, and you can’t kill us. Try as many times as you like. I’m sure it’ll sink in eventually.”
Wait, what? Bell thought.
“You’ll get used to us,” Loden said. “I promise. We’re interesting people. Well-traveled. Very friendly.”
The blaster fire slowed, then sputtered out, until Bell deflected one last shot and it seemed to be done. The Jedi maintained their stances, keeping their sabers out, listening as their attackers quietly faded away, back into the forest.
“How long do we keep watch?” Bell asked. “In case they circle back.”
“They won’t,” Loden said, deactivating his saber and returning it to its holster on his belt.
He walked to the tent, lifted its flap, and bent to duck inside. His voice floated out.
“Stay up if you want, Bell. It’s a lovely night,” Loden Greatstorm said. “I’m going to sleep.”
“So what I’m hoping to do,” Bell said, “is get a global survey of the debris path from Starlight Beacon’s fall, and access to the local reports, too. I’ve read the summaries, but they’re all high-level. Someone else, probably one of your people, already went through the data and pulled out what they thought was notable. That means there’s a lot I haven’t gotten to see. I might notice something they missed.”
“I see,” said Administrator Gorta.
They were in the man’s office in Barraza, one of Eiram’s significant cities. It had broad windows overlooking the sea (though almost every window on the planet looked at the sea, really) and a good view of the massive desalination plant the Jedi had helped save during Starlight’s fall, thereby saving the city itself.
Administrator Gorta was Bell’s first stop when beginning his search for Burryaga. He had an entire planet to scour, and assistance from the locals would be essential.
“Once I review that information, would it be possible to requisition a small search crew and a vessel or two to investigate the likely targets?” Bell continued. “I’m sure we could get through them quickly.”
“A. . .search crew,” Gorta said. “A vessel. Or two.”
“That’s right,” Bell said, wondering why the man was barely responding.
The last time they’d spoken, during the immediate disaster recovery, Gorta had acted decisively, issuing orders to his people, doing whatever needed to be done. Now he seemed. . .not annoyed, exactly, but certainly not happy. Not helpful.
The gaunt, harried-looking man offered up a long, shuddering sigh. He ran a long-fingered, knobby hand through hair ornamented by streaks of white Bell did not remember from the last time they had met. Gorta swallowed, clearly considering his words carefully, then spoke.
“Can I give you a piece of advice, Bell, especially if you’re going to wander around this planet asking our people for help with this mission to find your friend?”
“Not just a friend, Administrator—Burryaga is a great Jedi.”
“I have no doubt,” Gorta said. “Be that as it may. If you want to get anywhere on Eiram . . .”
He gestured vaguely, almost apologetically, toward Bell.
“You might want to reconsider the lightsabers, the robes, the sash,” Gorta said.
Bell looked down at his clothing, a pretty standard set of mission attire for a Jedi. A dark brown leather vest over black undergarments, leather boots, and a blue sash around his waist indicating his continuing status as a Padawan learner. The symbol of the Jedi Order—a great surging rush of winged, rising dawn—was incised in the leather at his chest. A holster just below the sash held his lightsaber, with Burryaga’s hilt tucked next to it, and a few pouches with the small amount of essential equipment Jedi carried with them.
Sure, it was all stained and torn and many-times mended, but what did Gorta expect? He’d been through hell.
“Is there a problem with it? I know I look a little rough, but I haven’t had a chance to get back to the Temple for new clothes since—”
“It’s not that,” Gorta said. “You could come in here wrapped in a fishing net for all I care. The issue is that you’re trying to get people on this planet to help you, dressed like a Jedi.”
“This is what we always wear,” Bell said, genuinely confused.
“Look, I won’t mince words. Eiram is still hurting from Starlight Beacon’s fall. You’re asking me to divert resources from our ongoing recovery effort to a new search for a survivor when all of the other searches have already been called off. I just can’t, Bell. Not in good conscience, and not politically. So you’re going to have to do your own search. I have no problem with that. Stay as long as you want.”
Gorta tapped his own lapel, bright coral with ornate embroidery meant to look like the scales of a fish, setting off the turquoise of his robe.
“But if you look like a Jedi, you won’t find a lot of folks too eager to help. I don’t think they’ll actively attack you, or hinder you, but the average Eirami isn’t the biggest fan of your order just now.”
“We saved this whole city,” Bell said.
“Which you wouldn’t have had to do if you didn’t drop a space station on us.”
“We didn’t do that! That was the Nihil!”
“Well, I know that,” Gorta said, pointing with his thumb back out the window behind him, at the shore and city still scattered with partially repaired structures and tangles of wreckage, “but to most of the people out there, the distinction is lost. The Republic built Starlight Beacon, filled it with Jedi, made a lot of speeches, and then it blew up over our planet and nearly killed us all.”
Bell found this deeply frustrating, sitting as he was in the office that would be at the bottom of the sea if not for the Jedi, many of whom had died in—
No, he told himself. Calm. Gorta is trying to help, as much as he can. He’s telling you an important truth. Just because you don’t like it doesn’t make it any less true.
“Thank you, Administrator Gorta,” Bell said. “I appreciate the advice.”
“Of course,” Gorta replied. “I do hope you find your friend. Truly.”
Bell stood and left the man’s office. He stood on the street outside, mostly ignored by passersby going about their business. He considered what he’d just heard, breathing in the salt air blowing toward him from the shore not a hundred paces away. He ran a hand down his vest, his fingertips tracing the grooves and curves of the Jedi Order’s symbol.
Loden Greatstorm walked through the town of Strop’s End, looking from side to side, smiling at anyone who caught his eye. Most faces remained cold as stone. If he got any reaction at all, it was a scowl. Loden didn’t seem to care.
The town was run-down, its people rattled and wary. The buildings bore unrepaired damage; here and there were piles of ruined materials, wrecked vehicles dragged out of the main thoroughfare and left to rust in the alleys. Everywhere was the evidence of war, but more than that, weariness, the idea that there was no point in building anything too impressive or fixing things that were broken or aspiring to much beyond surviving another day—because any day another attack might come, or you might be called on to take up arms and water the soil of some faraway land with your blood.
“Master, what are we doing here?” Bell said, his hand hovering near his saber holster, his senses—Force-related and otherwise—tuned as high as they could go.
“Getting the lay of the land,” Loden said. “Also, I am very sick of ration sticks and water. This town has to have a—ah, there. That looks promising.”
He angled left, heading toward a small building with a number of speeders outside it, and a good-sized hole in its roof. A few townspeople sat on benches on the building’s wide, sagging porch, drinking from earthen mugs.
As the Jedi approached, those locals offered reactions that began with startlement and moved to a place of dismay and deep affront. Loden ignored them and walked right past, so Bell did, too.
Inside, Loden surveyed the crowd, which had, unsurprisingly, gone completely silent the moment the Jedi entered.
Some of these people tried to murder us, Bell thought. Maybe all of them. No doubt in my mind.
He put his hand on his saber holster, not even pretending to hide it.
Loden flickered his fingers, a signal the Padawan recognized as Be easy, all is well, in the coded hand language his master had taught him.
It is not well, Bell thought, seeing only contempt and murderous intent on every face.
But he dropped his hand from his saber hilt. If he needed it, it would be there—just like the Force itself.
“My name is Loden Greatstorm,” Loden announced, lifting his arms in greeting, then gesturing to Bell. “And this is my dutiful and increasingly skilled student, Bell Zettifar. We are Knights of the Jedi Order.”
Someone coughed.
“I would like to buy a round for everyone in this bar—whatever’s good, whatever you all look forward to after a long day of hard work. It would be a pleasure.”
Looks of confusion, suspicion.
The bartender, a swarthy man with a truly beautiful mustache, glanced at a woman sitting at the end of his bar. She gave a subtle nod. The bartender shrugged and began lining up glasses and mugs on the bar.
When the drinks were distributed and Loden and Bell each had their own mug of some distillation that looked like wine and smelled like beer, Loden took a long sip.
“Well,” he said. “That’s delicious.”
Bell pantomimed tasting from his own mug for politeness’ sake. He looked around the tavern, where townspeople were moodily lifting their own drinks—apparently willing to enjoy a Jedi’s gift if not their company.
“What do I owe you?” Loden said, reaching into his tunic, withdrawing a handful of credits, and placing them on the bar. “Will this cover it?”
The bartender looked at the money as if Loden had just tossed a dead blurrg onto the counter.
“What’s in your head, Jedi, that you think Republic money is any good here?”
“Oh, right,” Loden said, scooping up the credits. “Thing is, we don’t have any other kind of money. I’m sure I ran up quite a bill just there. I guess we’ll have to work it off.”
