Kenobi

by John Jackson Miller

  Orrin smiled back. The boy was really growing up. He joined the applause.

  “That’s it, folks,” he said, stepping into the crowd. “First the racers tried to ruin our good time, and then the Tuskens. Let’s get back to the Claim and show ’em we still know how to celebrate!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  WITH CARE, A’YARK PLACED one rock upon another. It was important to select the right mix of stones. The pile had to last for eternity, holding the remains of A’Deen above Tatooine’s surface. Tomorrows only mattered to the dead.

  A’Yark’s clan did not bury their fallen. Nor could they, here in the shadows of The Pillars, where the ground was tough enough to snap off the end of any pick. No, A’Deen would lay atop the bed-altar, protected from wildlife by massiffs, the trained reptilians the Tuskens kept as camp guardians. His battle then would be against the suns—his spirit against theirs.

  Eventually, even the most defiant warrior’s body would succumb to the wind. Then a new level would be built over his remains, the growing mound providing a tower to support the body of that warrior’s sons, or grandsons. But the graves of A’Deen’s ancestors were far away, in a different part of the wastes.

  So here, in the evening shadows of this misbegotten place, A’Yark silently built a solitary bier for a boy who had been warrior for less than a week. No descendants would join his tower, but his spirit would last as long as the stones of his resting place did. A’Yark chose carefully. It was the work of a mother.

  A’Yark was that, and a warrior, as well. The traditional divided roles of the past were a luxury the clan could not afford. There simply weren’t enough to fill them. All that had changed after a single dread day thirteen cycles earlier. Today’s losses had been bad, but they were nothing compared with what had happened the day the clan battled the Hutts.

  The day Sharad Hett died.

  A’Yark stopped sorting and wondered. It was safe, now, to pause and reflect—as safe as it was going to get. She thought about Ben’s weapon, and visualized the owner of the other she’d seen. Sharad Hett was the ootman, the Outlander of local legend—but to A’Yark, he was a real being. He was, in fact, family, because of a different human A’Yark had met first: K’Sheek.

  A’Yark had been born as K’Yark, the youngest of six children. When three of her siblings died from plague, her father Yark repopulated his household through a time-honored practice: abduction. K’Sheek, so named by the Tuskens who kidnapped her from a local settlement, was nearly an adult when she came to live with A’Yark’s family. A’Yark, still a child, was granted the privilege—too often, a chore—of bestowing on K’Sheek the ways and words of the Tuskens.

  In so doing, A’Yark learned some of the soulless breathings the settlers called words. She remembered them well, evidently, as the one called Ben had understood her today. K’Sheek had spoken many human words, most of them sad. Over time, A’Yark realized her new sister had been living as a slave of the humans. Life with the Tuskens was not freedom, because the Tuskens were not free—bound and cursed, as they were, to inhabit the blasted lands. To K’Sheek, pale and miserable, it was almost more horrible than death. A’Yark often expected her to vanish into the wind.

  But as a long chain of Tusken torturers had found, where humans were concerned, fragile bodies often contained durable spirits. Yark allowed both A’Yark and K’Sheek to learn the ways of the warriors. He had assumed, correctly, that K’Sheek would learn their ways faster—and had defended his daughters against all criticism. There will come a day when all must fight, he had told the elders. We are too few.

  While K’Sheek learned the Tusken words, both sisters learned combat. A’Yark saw that humans had great potential, as K’Sheek’s talent continually amazed. But something more startling was to come over the horizon from the cities and into the Tusken camp.

  A volunteer.

  Sharad Hett had ventured willingly into the wastes, bent on suicide—or, rather, on joining the Tuskens, which was much the same thing. A settler taken by force could enter the tribe, as K’Sheek had; but there was an important difference. The Tuskens had chosen K’Sheek. Sharad Hett had presumed much, and had to be broken.

  A’Yark’s people certainly tried.

  But Sharad had survived the punishments and emerged stronger. The elders whispered he had been part of some ancient and foreign army, suffused with powers from angry spirits. And Sharad carried a great and magical weapon, something no common settler carried. A shining green blade of energy.

  In time, Sharad earned the garb and gaderffii of a Tusken, showing his face to the sky for the last time. He took fellow human K’Sheek as his mate—a match not of convenience, but affection—and together, they had a son, A’Sharad. But K’Sheek had not lived to see their child grow. Might against the enemy was one thing, but Tatooine posed threats of its own. Not long after her son’s birth, K’Sheek disappeared into a sandstorm.

  Vanished into the wind—but A’Yark had not grieved over the loss of her sister. The presence of the child had bound Sharad to the Tuskens for life. Freely using the terrible powers and weapon at his disposal, Sharad became a war leader, training his son alongside him.

  A’Yark saw little of the humans in those times. With her permissive father dead, her lot became that of any other female in the tribe. She took a spouse; she bore children. The group swelled as survivors of other clans joined, and for a time the Tuskens were strong. Under Sharad, structure had replaced chaos. Leadership, something every Tusken defied on principle, seeped into practice as Sharad could have his sway on any issue.

  They feared him, yes. But they also followed. Sharad had never believed the Tuskens were a cursed people. With such a warrior—a wizard, really—the Tuskens could escape their fate and become mighty indeed.

  But that, too, was presumption. For other forces existed on Tatooine, more powerful than any single warrior. The greatest of the Hutts, Jabba, had for some reason manipulated Tusken tribes across the Jundland into an all-out war with the settlers—a fight that had claimed the life of A’Yark’s oldest son, just six cycles old. An answer had to be given, and Sharad had led her clan and others into battle against the Hutts. But Jabba brought many thralls to battle that day, and countless Tusken warriors died, including her spouse, Deen. Sharad had died, too. Even Sharad’s son vanished, although no Tusken ever found the body.

  A bad omen, and it told true. The makeshift Tusken alliance forged by Sharad collapsed, with the surviving clans melting away into the hillsides. A’Yark, a mother holding two little children, found herself forced to hold together what remained of her tribe. The few warriors that had survived were damaged, physically and spiritually; able to carry gaderffii, but unable to command others. Sharad had left no successor.

  A’Yark hadn’t sought the role of war leader. There was enough to do, simply making sure the clan ate. But when no one rose, she did. It had once been her father’s tribe, after all; they had seen her ride with warriors before. And more than ever, her decimated people understood the meaning of their creed: Whoever has two hands can hold a gaderffii.

  Losses continued in the decade after Sharad’s death. A’Yark had shared in them, losing another son—and later an eye, taken by infection after a wound. The crystal that now sat in its place had been a gift from Sharad. But the greater blow was to the clan’s spirit. When a mightier band of Tuskens vanished literally overnight several years earlier, leaving just the remnants of their camp behind, her group grew increasingly timid. A’Yark had tried to revive their spirits by example and, later, by daring exploits like the morning raids. After today, though, such things wouldn’t be possible. The shaper had no more clay to spare.

  A’Yark stared back between the stone towers to the tents. Her people wandered, wraithlike, as if waiting for a final blow. There was no way to prevent such a stroke. Only seven males of warrior age remained: those she had brought from the gorge. And they lived only because their cowardice had driven them to run the fastest.

  Of a
ll Sand People, A’Yark had no objections to arming the rest of the clan. But even with a rifle placed in the hands of every mother, elder, and youngling, the prospects were poor. The Tuskens didn’t train; all experience came from combat. They would die before they learned anything.

  No, it was pointless to resist. The clan would dissolve, its members drifting into bands where they would have no station or standing. Unless—

  A’Yark looked up, startled. Yes. When her people had been desperate before, Sharad had used his powers to give them purpose. In fact, he had brought larger groups to his side. With a similar leader, the Yark clan might become more than the rump of a once-mighty tribe. A’Yark’s group could become the nucleus of a second united front, crushing the settlers once and for all—with another Sharad.

  With “Ben.”

  If Ben was another Sharad, the Tuskens couldn’t afford to see him allied with the settlers, to be sure. But what if he could be made to join the Tuskens? He would have to be compelled; he’d already shown violence to her people inside the oasis store. But compelled how?

  Ben seemed to want to protect the storekeeper, but there was no chance of using the woman for leverage. Another foray against the compound was out of the question. Humans were odd creatures, forming attachments to irrelevant beings and things. Perhaps there was someone else Ben cared for on Tatooine that he would do anything to protect.

  Even if it meant becoming a Tusken, himself.

  Eye wide open, A’Yark resolved to find out. Her exhausted body coursed again with energy and will. If a pressure point existed, A’Yark would discover it—and exploit it.

  But first, her youngest child had to be put to bed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  BEN HAD SAID LITTLE on the way home from the gorge. Annileen had been the opposite, asking one question after another as their speeder bike moved into the lengthening shadows of the western Jundland.

  What happened in the store with Ulbreck?

  What was the name that Plug-eye—A’Yark—said to you?

  And how did you recognize it, especially when you’re new to Tatooine?

  He’d never answered, acting as if he couldn’t hear over the whine of the bike. And maybe he couldn’t. Annileen had driven slower and slower, hoping to disarm him of that excuse. It hadn’t worked. “You’re losing altitude,” he’d said.

  Well, I won’t argue that. Annileen felt the weight of the day on her shoulders as she coasted toward Ben’s hovel.

  “Here we are,” she said, activating the brakes. Earlier, near the gorge, they’d briefly debated going back to the Claim so he could pick up his eopie. But night was falling, and even with the local Tuskens seemingly at bay, it was still Tatooine. Other predators moved in the dark.

  “Thank you,” he said, climbing off the hovering bike. She looked up at his house. He’d made a little headway in cleaning up the surrounding area, but not much. “I’ll run in at dawn tomorrow to fetch Rooh,” he said. “You won’t even know I’m there.”

  Annileen climbed off the vehicle and followed. “You know, my offer still stands if you want to save yourself a walk. My guest room’s empty tonight. I’d love to have you—”

  “No!” Then, seemingly embarrassed, he adopted a calmer expression. “I mean, I’m sure your family and store will need all your attention after today. You don’t need company underfoot.”

  “I’ll have it, whether I want it or not,” she said, remembering the usual after-action routine of the vigilantes. Would they really expect to party in a Tusken-ravaged store?

  Yeah, probably, she thought.

  “I’ll leave you to it, then,” Ben said. He began walking toward his house. “I hope your patron is doing better.”

  Annileen blanched as she recalled the sight of the injured Rodian. “Poor Bohmer,” she said. “I was thinking about him earlier, too. He always sat there, staring. I never knew why. But I just imagined such sadness in his life, to make him sit there. For him to get hurt like that—”

  Ben stopped and looked back. “It wasn’t sadness.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I saw him today—and on my first trip, there, as well.” Ben clasped his hands together. “I could tell. That wasn’t sadness. That was contentment.”

  Annileen stared. “How do you know?”

  “It’s just a feeling,” he said, blue eyes looking off into the setting suns. “But I’ve seen sadness before, in all kinds of faces. Bohmer was content. The drink you brought him in the morning, the table he sat at—it was his place in the universe.”

  “But he got hurt there—”

  “Protecting the place he loved. I think he’ll be okay with that.” Ben turned and began walking again up the hill in silence.

  Annileen thought back to Ben talking about loss, earlier in the day. He was struggling with something, she could tell—something pretty bad. But at the same time, he seemed so centered. Centered, in the middle of nowhere.

  She fumbled for words before finally settling on three. “Who are you?”

  He laughed. “Ben. We’ve been over this.”

  No joke. Annileen shook her head. “Freelance philosopher of the desert, doctoring and rescuing!”

  “I don’t think it happened that way. You’ll remember it differently, later.”

  Annileen stood at the foot of the hill and put her hands on her hips. “Well, you’re wasting your talent out here. Someone like you—you ought to be doing something.” She paused, before going ahead with the impetuous addition: “Or you ought to have a family to watch over.”

  Ben paused. He looked over his shoulder at her, the little smile back on his face. “Well, you never know. Perhaps I already have a family to watch over.”

  Annileen rolled her eyes. She turned and climbed onto her speeder bike.

  “Oh,” Ben called suddenly. He reached into the folds of his cloak and retrieved something rectangular from his pocket. “I just realized, in the commotion—I still have your datapad.”

  “Keep it,” Annileen said, grinding the throttle. “Souvenir of a crazy day.”

  “But the safari. Your application—”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” she said. “There’s a new species to study right here.” She released the brake and soared away.

  As stressful days for Annileen went, this one already ranked only behind Jabe’s difficult breech birth. And it wasn’t over.

  After Ben’s, she stopped by Doc Mell’s place. Learning that Bohmer was sedated and resting in Bestine, she returned home, anticipating a mess of a store—and another war, when she found Jabe. He’d skipped out on work, taken up with trashy friends, and defied her by going after Tuskens. Twice! It was one thing to arrive butt-first into the world, but Jabe was going for the endurance record.

  She wasn’t surprised to see lights on inside the Claim, with landspeeders scattered about. What did surprise her was the Claim itself, once she stepped through the door.

  Yes, there were drunkards celebrating; more than she’d ever seen in the place before. But the store itself was spotless. The gun counter and shelves had been repaired, the nasty smears on the floor were gone, and products were back on their shelves reasonably close to where they belonged. The smell was even gone.

  Raising a drink from within a gathering of mostly male revelers, Leelee smiled at her. “Everyone who didn’t go with the posse pitched in,” she said. “It gave us something to do.”

  Annileen looked around, suspicious. She didn’t trust anyone to be in her store without a Calwell present. “Everything’s still here?”

  “We might have fed ourselves a little off the shelves—but it’s a small price, no?”

  Annileen walked up to her friend. Even for a Zeltron, Leelee looked flushed; the party had been going for a while. Annileen recognized her friend’s husband, Waller, in the mix, telling his own tales from the assault on the Tuskens. “Who’s with your kids?”

  “The guard droids,” Waller called out, toasting with an empty mug. “
Plug-eye’s finished. The droids are all we need!”

  “All we need tonight,” Orrin said, clearing his throat loudly from behind the bar. He was a startling sight, having donned his spare set of fancy city clothes from the office—and an apron over them. Host and bartender, he refilled glasses with a smile. He spotted Annileen and nodded to the empty bottles. “I’m keeping track.”

  “No, you’re not.” Annileen approached. “Give me whatever’s left,” she said, settling wearily on a stool at her own bar.

  Orrin was already pouring. “You were out there, weren’t you?” He laughed. “Annie, you’re a marvel. What was it Dannar said? You can’t spell adrenaline without Annileen.”

  “Dannar never could spell,” she said, taking the glass. “That’s why he hired me.” She downed the drink in three seconds and deposited the glass on the bar in front of him. “Now what did you think you were doing, taking Jabe out there?”

  Orrin’s smile crumpled for a moment before a young voice saved him. “Don’t blame him, Mom. It wasn’t his idea!”

  Annileen glared as Jabe stepped in from outside. The boy paused before Orrin. “Wyle Ulbreck’s gone, sir.”

  “Blast,” Orrin said, shaking his head. “I’d hoped to rub the big victory in his face.” He looked around the room and raised his voice. “Everyone knows the Settlers’ Call works now, right? This place is the proof!”

  A ragged, drunken cheer went up. Annileen ignored it. She slid off the stool and blocked Jabe from reaching the happy crowd. “Jabe. You have to stop.”

  “Stop what?”

  “I’m too tired for the list,” she said, clutching at his shirt. “But let’s start with the gorge. You were killing!”

  “Killing Tuskens!” The boy waved his hands theatrically. “They’re not civilized, Mom. They’re not anything!”

  “You don’t know that,” Annileen said. “They’re not womp rats that you can shoot for fun!”