Master & Apprentice (Star Wars)

by Claudia Gray

  A new area of the compound became visible. The Jedi stopped and stared at it for the several moments it took to believe it, until an ASP-7 clunked toward the uneven area, an enormous metal container balanced on its arms. The ASP-7 emptied the container, shook it once for good measure, then began carrying it back to be filled again.

  “The trash,” Obi-Wan said in disbelief. “Czerka’s throwing the kohlen crystals into the trash?”

  Qui-Gon might not have believed it, either, if he hadn’t glimpsed a few telltale orange glints amid the rubble. “Apparently they’re mining for the other minerals we’ve detected, and the kohlen crystals are merely…debris. Well, that tells us one of two things.”

  “We know Czerka isn’t behind the blackguards,” Obi-Wan said. “If they were, they’d need the kohlen crystals.”

  “That, or the kohlen crystals aren’t used in the blackguards’ shielding after all.” Qui-Gon straightened. “Either way, I doubt we have much more to learn by searching this facility. There’s nothing special about Czerka’s operation, and we’re not getting anywhere near the blackguards.”

  The electric sizzle of a blaster bolt startled them. The Jedi both looked up just in time to see one of the mining droids explode.

  Alarms began to wail. Red lights blinked on the corner of each facility. Worker droids dropped their tasks, wheeling around to provide what meager defense they could. Qui-Gon scanned the horizon and saw three small troop movers hovering just over the tree line, approaching the compound. The troop movers were descending—coming in to land just within the fence.

  He knew who it would be before the first soldier appeared, and surely Obi-Wan knew, too. But when that figure jumped out, blaster in hand, Qui-Gon still had to say it: “The blackguards. They’re here.”

  The boredom of sitting around waiting for the Jedi ended abruptly, with telltale signals blinking their way into sensor range. Pax took a look at them, sized up the situation, and thought, Oh, bloody hell.

  “Scanner-blocking field up,” he said. “At our first convenience, we’re getting out of here.”

  Rahara came in, a haroun bun in her hand. “Wait. What about the Jedi?”

  “Qui-Gon had the decency to say we shouldn’t put ourselves in mortal danger on their account. We are not currently in mortal danger, but it’s rather too close for comfort.” Would he have to do a full readings analysis to convince her? Then a simpler solution came to mind, and he pointed through the cockpit viewport toward the flying shapes near the horizon. “There.”

  She gasped. “Whose ships are those?”

  “I’ve no idea, and it doesn’t matter anyway. The ships’ weapons are powered up and they’re flying in attack formation. That’s all I need to know to assess the likelihood of the aforementioned ‘mortal danger,’ which is extremely high.”

  Distant blasterfire showed as little more than greenish streaks of light above the trees. Pax preferred the fire to come no closer. Rahara murmured, “Whoever they are, they’re attacking the Czerka facility.”

  “People after your own heart,” he said. “Let’s leave them to it, shall we?”

  He hoped she’d return to the cockpit beside him and take the helm; Pax was a perfectly adequate pilot, but he lacked Rahara’s magic touch. They stood a far better chance of getting away from here without being noticed if she was in the pilot’s seat. Besides, she’d been back in the mess, snacking, for some time now, and he was in the mood for more companionship and entertainment. (He had previously been instructed that it was not acceptable to interrupt her eating, sleeping, refresher time, or holovids for this reason alone. The crisis gave him the perfect excuse.)

  But she was already shaking her head no. “It’s not just Czerka scum in the facility,” she said. “The people they’ve enslaved are there, too. They’ll get cut down before anyone’s able to touch the inner rooms where their owners are.” Rahara straightened. “I can’t let that happen.”

  “Although I shudder to ask,” Pax said, “how do you propose to stop it?”

  “By taking the Facet in to provide some cover.” Rahara grabbed a helmet from the rack and headed toward the hold.

  This was unacceptable on many levels. Pax hurried after her, calling, “You won’t be able to do much good in the Facet—each one of those ships is five times larger, and has ten times the firepower. Roughly. Exact figures can be calculated if you need convincing.”

  “I don’t need exact figures. I need to get down there.”

  With that, Rahara pushed a panel on the wall. The plating on part of the floor retracted, providing access to the launch bay below. There, gleaming like a silver dart, lay the Facet.

  Pax had felt so clever when he’d purchased a single-pilot fighter. If the Meryx were ever attacked, then he had the ability to strike back—while keeping his valuable cargo out of harm’s way. But he’d always pictured himself going into the fight. Not Rahara.

  “Get us off the ground,” she said. “I’ll take it from there.”

  It was tempting to refuse. Even a pilot as skilled as Rahara Wick couldn’t manage to launch a fighter within half a meter of the ground.

  Refusing to take off, however, would only start an argument. Pax already knew how that argument would end. He might as well help her do as much good as she could.

  “Rahara?” he called, as she took her seat. “Wear your gloves.”

  She grinned up at him for the split second before the Facet’s mirrored cockpit slid shut.

  * * *

  —

  Obi-Wan’s brief hopes that they could stay out of the fight vanished when several blackguards pivoted and began running directly toward them. “They’ve spotted us.”

  “So it would seem.” Qui-Gon ignited his lightsaber, and Obi-Wan did the same. The electric hum of it was almost soothing, a reminder that whoever his opponents were, he was a Jedi.

  One of the blackguards fired in their direction—but not at them, Obi-Wan realized. Instead the bolt hit one of the fence control posts. For a moment, the electronic fence glowed so brightly it was as opaque as any stone wall. Then it vanished, and there was nothing between the Jedi and the blackguards but some mining droids and twenty meters of mud.

  Qui-Gon ran forward, taking point. With his free hand, he grabbed a blaster dropped by a blackguard and fired at another, but the shot impacted on his opponent’s shield, causing no damage. Obi-Wan swore to himself. Why did the shields have to guard against conventional weapons, too? Qui-Gon’s defensive moves were perfectly executed—but their enemies remained untouchable. That meant all the blackguards had to do was bide their time and wait for one small mistake by the Jedi.

  Obi-Wan ducked behind an ASP-7, taking cover. He expected Qui-Gon to do the same, but instead his Master kept fighting. His robe and hair spun with every move he made, and when Obi-Wan glimpsed his face, he saw only serenity. Complete calm.

  I am one with the Force, Obi-Wan thought, recalling an old saying of the Guardians of the Whills. The Force is with me.

  He relaxed and let the Force flow through him. Usually, in battle, the Force seemed to fall silent—not to desert him, but to become no more than instinct. This time, however, Obi-Wan found himself connecting to everything around him—as though he were in a meditative trance. He wasn’t waiting for his Master to guide him. At last, he was guided purely by the Force.

  The next few minutes seemed to take place in slow motion. Obi-Wan felt no fear as he emerged from behind the loader droid and re-engaged the blackguards. Life and death were all the same, within the Force; there was nothing to hide from, nothing to distract him. Instead he could perceive the path of every blaster bolt before it was fired. His body required no help from his conscious mind to angle his lightsaber to deflect each shot.

  Qui-Gon had always encouraged him to enter a meditative trance during combat. Obi-Wan had always thought that absurd, if not imposs
ible.

  But now, at last, he fought as his Master had taught him.

  * * *

  —

  Rahara kept the Facet so low that it skimmed some of the treetops. She’d feel the thud, dip to one side or the other, momentarily lose some speed—but it was nothing her ship couldn’t handle.

  I’m not sorry we never had to use the Facet as an actual fighter before, she thought, but I’m glad we’ve got it now.

  All the attacking ships had landed by this time, so there was nothing to worry about in the air. Once Rahara had cleared the facility perimeter, she could see what was happening on the ground. On this side of the main building, the two Jedi Knights were up against at least a dozen fighters, and from the looks of it were holding their own. They moved so fluidly, their lightsabers so brilliant, that she could almost have believed they were dancers. Rahara felt a shiver of awe. She’d always heard about the Jedi using their powers, but she’d never witnessed it before.

  The Facet flew over the nearest building, revealing another slice of the compound and the battle. It showed her what she’d come here for.

  Alongside this building—a processing unit—a dozen or so Czerka workers had huddled beneath an overhang, attempting to shield themselves from blasterfire. The attackers, whom Rahara figured had to be blackguards, weren’t firing at these poor people directly, only at the building itself. But if the building blew, all the enslaved would be killed as surely as if they were inside.

  There was a door only a meter away from them. Rahara remembered the old protocols, knew that the Czerka personnel had already taken shelter and locked all the entrances, because everyone who mattered was safe. Slaves didn’t matter.

  Someday she’d get her shot at Czerka proper. For now she could only help those Czerka had abandoned.

  Rahara took the Facet in low, almost ground-level, flying between the enslaved people and the blackguards. Blasterfire pummeled the hull, but these were personal firearms, not the more powerful cannons ships used; the bolts barely scarred the surface, and didn’t even slow her down. As soon as she was done, she swooped back again, closer to the blackguards. Her reward was seeing them skitter backward to escape being physically run down.

  She banked around for a third sweep of the area. By now the enslaved workers had dashed away from the Czerka building and were hurrying into a mineral silo—more than strong enough to hold up to blasterfire. Should she keep buzzing the blackguards? Probably not; then she’d be helping Czerka, not the people Czerka had enslaved. So Rahara took the Facet higher to get another look around. Dots on the distant horizon drew her attention.

  Wait. Those are approaching ships. Out loud, Rahara muttered, “Who the hell is that?”

  Green-white light exploded all around her, surrounding the Facet, which dipped dangerously to one side. She fought for control, but the ship was no longer responding well. Apparently at least one of the blackguards had a surface-to-air weapon, which had just been used to take her out. Rahara could do nothing besides pull up hard to try to break the force of the crash that was coming.

  * * *

  —

  “Don’t look now,” Obi-Wan called over the din of battle, “but I think we have reinforcements!”

  Qui-Gon looked toward the horizon and saw approaching ships—troopships, not unlike those of the blackguards, but each of them proudly showing the royal colors of green and white. Despite Rael’s protests, Fanry’s guard had come to back them up.

  The blackguards didn’t seem to have planned for this contingency. Several of them lowered their weapons and looked around in apparent confusion. But some others had already broken and run for their ships. A full retreat seemed likely.

  Then the sound of crashing metal echoed through the camp. Qui-Gon wheeled around to see a small ship, a single-pilot fighter, sending up plumes of mud as it skidded to a stop along the ground. That must be the fighter from the Meryx, he thought. Although Qui-Gon hadn’t seen the fighter before, Pax had already taken the opportunity to brag about it.

  Whoever was in the cockpit of that ship was in serious danger of capture or death. Whether it was Pax or Rahara, they were only there because Qui-Gon had insisted.

  Which meant it was his responsibility to get them out alive, if he could.

  Obi-Wan saw his Master running toward the downed fighter, and understood instinctively that he was to hold his ground against the blackguards until they retreated. The pilot’s rescue would be up to Qui-Gon.

  Or so he thought, until weathered droidekas began rolling up from chutes within the ground. Czerka’s defense had finally kicked in. Several of the droidekas headed for the blackguards, but two aimed themselves directly at Qui-Gon.

  The wave of surprise and fear that went through the blackguards told Obi-Wan they were about to run. That let him ignore them completely and run toward Qui-Gon.

  Calling upon the Force allowed him to jump farther and higher than he ever had before—at least five meters—somersaulting in midair to land in defensive position, slightly in front of his Master. Qui-Gon shouted, “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Obi-Wan’s only answer was deflecting droideka fire. These blasts could be blocked by their lightsabers, but the droidekas could shoot five times faster than any human, and were at least ten times harder to stop.

  The entire compound had sprung into action at the same time as the battle droids. Some Czerka higher-up huddling in one of the buildings must’ve belatedly signaled for an evacuation. Although Obi-Wan remained focused on the battle droids, he could perceive more of the scene around them: blockish automated craft emerging from concrete shafts, doors opening to Czerka workers hustling in all their property, droids and equipment—

  —and people.

  * * *

  —

  “Owww.” Rahara popped the pilot’s harness in the Facet so she could brace herself. Her ship had skidded to a halt on the edge of a ditch, tilting it sharply to one side. With one arm under her, she could prop up to see what was going on.

  The cockpit was half covered with mud. Through the smears she glimpsed droids moving in set patterns, toward autopiloted hauler craft. Rahara recognized the evacuation protocol immediately. She’d gone through a handful of these, when a mineshaft threatened to blow and damage equipment.

  Okay, Czerka’s leaving. Rahara felt relieved, then guilty for feeling that way when just a few meters from her ship, enslaved people were being loaded onto haulers. But she knew the evacuation procedure well enough to understand that there was nothing she could do, unarmed, with a ship that would need some repair before it could fly again.

  I wonder, she thought, if some of them are people I know.

  Tears filled her eyes as Rahara envisioned some of their faces—the fellow slaves who’d been kind to a small child sold away from her parents, comforted her as best they could—

  A security droid rolled up to the Facet, blocking Rahara’s view of anything else but mud. Through the cockpit she could hear its tinny voice: “Scanning.”

  Rahara froze. It felt as though the back of her left hand were burning, like the tag she’d cut out long ago were trying to signal Czerka on its own. She looked down at her midnight-blue gloves and repeated to herself, You’re safe. You’re safe.

  The security droid projected a beam of green light into the cockpit, momentarily blinding her. She was still blinking when it pried off the cockpit, exposing her.

  “Initial scan inconclusive,” it said as the beam swept over Rahara one more time. Its long, multijointed arms unfolded with its next words: “Confirmed via facial recognition. Czerka property.”

  “No!” Rahara clambered from the cockpit, ignoring the ache in her crash-bruised chest, scrambling to get away. The Jedi were around here somewhere—if she could only reach them, they’d help her—

  But the security droid’s clamp seized her, knocking the
breath from Rahara’s lungs as it snatched her into its grip. Her feet dangled several centimeters above the ground, so she couldn’t get any traction to push away. A miniature pincer clicked out from a panel to snatch off the left-hand glove. A needle jabbed the back of her hand, piercing the skin, and she cried out in pain.

  “Temporary tag in place,” the droid said.

  Rahara had been prepared to die in deep space. To go to jail as a jewel thief. To run afoul of the Hutts. To get shot down by blackguards. She’d accepted all the dangers her life contained, except one. The only one she had begged the Force to spare her was a return to slavery.

  So much for the Force, she thought numbly as the security droid dropped her in a hauler with the rest of Czerka’s stuff.

  * * *

  —

  The palace troopships were coming closer as the Jedi Knights fought against two droidekas at the perimeter of the compound. Ozone from blasters filled the air, a strange counterpoint to the organic smells of conifers and mud. A haze covered the ground—smoke, puddles evaporating from the heat of blaster bolts, ore dust—hampering visibility, as though they were fighting their way through a swirling fog that came up to their knees.

  Qui-Gon wasn’t fazed. All he and Obi-Wan had to do was stall for a little more time. Then they’d have extra firepower on their side, and defeating the droidekas would be easy.

  But as he observed Obi-Wan in action, fighting as brilliantly as any full Jedi Knight, Qui-Gon decided extra firepower might not be necessary.

  “Obi-Wan!” he called. “Triangulate!”

  His apprentice lit up, for once understanding Qui-Gon completely. The two of them moved closer together, almost back-to-back. Under his breath, still furiously defending them with his lightsaber, Obi-Wan murmured, “Say when.”

  Qui-Gon had a near miss of a bolt that jolted his lightsaber in his hands, but he recovered immediately. He watched the two droids pivot, each toward the Jedi it had locked onto as its main target. “Now.”