by Claudia Gray
Rael turned off his lightsaber then, but the contest wasn’t completely over. “You’ve made mistakes, Qui-Gon. You’ve touched darkness.”
“Yes, I have. No doubt I will again. This isn’t a choice we make once and walk away from. It’s the work of a lifetime.” Qui-Gon headed for the door. Strangely, despite everything, he had found a greater sense of peace. “Take up that work again, Rael. Let yourself be guided by the Force.”
“I’m not your Padawan,” Rael replied. “So save it.”
Qui-Gon saved it. He went downstairs wondering when—or if—his old friend would again be guided by his principles rather than his shame.
* * *
—
In the early evening on Pijal’s moon, the sky took on a vivid shade of pink. Pijal hung enormous and golden in the sky, giving the scene a kind of beauty it didn’t deserve.
Obi-Wan knelt in the muck that had been a Czerka compound and then a battleground. Next to him was the Facet, and in its cockpit sat Pax Maripher, who wanted to test their repairs.
“All right. What do you see when I do this?” Pax asked, to the sound of a flipped switch.
“The wing curvature increases the degree of its arc,” Obi-Wan said, reaching toward a panel by the wing.
“Splendid. And what about this?”
“Ow!” Obi-Wan pulled back his hand. After sucking on his singed finger for a second, he answered, “The antigrav units warm up—literally.”
“Well. That’s good then. That’s good.” Pax said the words absently, as though he didn’t wholly remember where he was. “I suppose there’s no reason for me to stick around, then.”
They’d double-, triple-, and quadruple-checked the minor repairs the Facet had needed. Obi-Wan strongly suspected Pax was putting off his departure out of the irrational hope that Rahara Wick would suddenly appear and explain where she’d been. But night was falling, and more than one armed group was running amok on this moon. They both needed to leave.
“Pax?” he asked. “If it would help, you could head back to the Meryx and bring it up. That way I could pilot the Facet into its hold.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course. Very logical.”
Slowly, as though his muscles were sore, Pax climbed from the Facet cockpit and wandered into the woods. How long would it be before he could bring himself to take off? A while, Obi-Wan thought. So he didn’t climb into the Facet himself right away.
His comlink buzzed. He took it up and said, “Kenobi here.”
“Padawan Kenobi.” It was Mace Windu’s voice. “Is this an opportune time to speak?”
The Jedi Council had made its decision.
What action could not do, diplomacy might accomplish.
Or, failing that, money.
“Supervisor Col,” Qui-Gon said, taking a seat in her luxurious office. “Thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice, and at such a late hour.”
“I’d been hoping to speak with you, too.” Meritt Col folded her hands together on her desk. Through the enormous window behind her, he could see the palace silhouetted by the last fading light of sundown. “Besides, we’re all putting in long hours preparing for the coronation. Czerka’s sponsoring numerous fairs and activities in honor of the future queen.”
“A sector supervisor helps organize public events?” Qui-Gon asked mildly, accepting a small cup of tea from a little LEP servant droid. “That seems—well, beneath your station.”
Corporate types were always protective of their status, and Meritt Col was no exception. She was quick to explain. “I prefer to think of it as an investment in Czerka’s future, both here on Pijal and in regard to the new hyperspace corridor. Everything we can do to ensure a smooth transfer of power is, in the end, as much of a benefit to this company as it is to Her Serene Highness.”
Qui-Gon nodded as though this were any other pleasant conversation over tea. “Of course, it doesn’t look like there’s going to be a ceremony.”
Col’s smile stiffened but didn’t fade. “I feel sure the Republic will find someone or other to play the part. Please know, Master Jinn, that I don’t mean to cast any aspersion on your religious beliefs. But dreams foretelling the future—well, that’s not how Czerka Corporation makes decisions. I’d been hoping to talk to you to see if anything might persuade you to…reconsider the basis for your actions.”
In other words, she hoped he might take a bribe. Probably Meritt Col had more sense than to offer him money, but other forms of bait might be dangled. Qui-Gon wondered whether any Jedi had ever bitten.
Not many of them, certainly—but one or two? Perhaps, especially since Col was smiling at him brightly in a way that suggested she felt optimistic.
“My decision is final. And I doubt the Republic will be sending anyone else to sign the Governance Treaty, not without significant changes.” Although Qui-Gon wasn’t sure how quickly the Jedi Council would react, he knew Yoda had listened to his concerns and taken them seriously. For all Yoda’s lectures about how the Jedi should not rule, he had a funny way of convincing Chancellor Kaj to listen; action would be taken. No more people would be enslaved on Pijal.
But that wasn’t what Qui-Gon had come here to negotiate.
“Let’s put political matters behind us,” he said, setting down his cup. “Yesterday, on Pijal’s moon, a person Czerka formerly held as ‘sentient property’ was retaken into custody—”
“Not ‘formerly.’ ”
Qui-Gon frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
“Those who escaped, rather than legally purchasing their freedom or having it purchased for them, are not ‘formerly’ owned by Czerka,” said Col. “They’re still owned by Czerka. Our corporate charters specify this in great detail, and of course, any planet that does business with us must agree to operate in accordance with the charter. That includes Pijal.”
Every word of this was odious to Qui-Gon, but he remained calm. He was here to accomplish one task and one task only. “Then, as you would have it, a woman owned by Czerka was taken back into custody after several years at large. I wish to negotiate for, or purchase, her freedom.”
Col blinked. Whatever she’d been expecting him to say, it wasn’t that. “A Jedi wishes to buy a slave. My. How novel.”
“In order to free her,” Qui-Gon emphasized.
Meritt Col pursed her lips. “Would you be willing to consider a price other than money? Say, your cooperation in the treaty ceremony? Agreeing to represent the Republic?”
The automatic answer stilled in his throat. Could he use this position to bargain for meaningful changes—the amendment of the treaty, or even banning slavery on Pijal? Could he not only recover Rahara Wick, but also benefit the entire planet?
Probably not. Qui-Gon’s heart sank as he realized how unlikely the Jedi Council was to back him up on this. It was an overreach of his power as a representative, and he knew it.
Besides that, his vision remained vivid. Qui-Gon had seen bloodshed and mayhem at the treaty ceremony. He knew—as absolutely as though he’d already lived through it—that he could not allow the ceremony to occur. Not even to save his own life.
“That’s not possible,” he said. “However, I’m prepared to offer a considerable amount of money—or perhaps offer advice on how certain political situations might change when Chancellor Kaj leaves office.”
Meritt Col’s eyes lit up, and for a moment Qui-Gon thought it might be that easy. His opinions weren’t based on any confidential information; many people assumed that the Jedi must have inside knowledge of government workings, which was only partially true. Qui-Gon had no more idea than anyone else in the galaxy about what the other candidates like Elissiar or Valorum might do in office. He would opine at length, though, if it freed Rahara Wick.
Then Col’s expression hardened. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. Honestly, I’m not sure there’s any bargai
n we could’ve struck. When a slave escapes, it’s important to show the others the futility of that action. Allowing such a person to be purchased and freed immediately—well, it could create unrest. Raise false hopes. I’m sure you understand what I mean.”
“You mean,” Qui-Gon said, “that there’s nothing I can do to change your mind.”
With a broad smile, Col said, “Absolutely nothing.”
* * *
—
“Wick, Rahara.” The cam droid took images of her from every angle as she stood shivering in the processing chamber. Meanwhile the RQ protocol droid shuffled around her, reciting the facts out loud. “Born to Czerka twenty-nine years prior in the Hosnian Prime factory complex. Reported missing fifteen years, two months, and two days prior. Recovered today at approximately—”
“I wasn’t born to Czerka,” Rahara said. Her voice was almost drowned out by the hissing of steam vents and the constant clanking of droids and prisoner footsteps on the metal grid floors. “I was born to parents. Human parents. Don’t guess you could tell me who they were?”
Sometimes she believed she remembered them. Most of the time, she knew better.
The RQ unit paused. “The requested records are irrelevant.”
“You know, I have a friend who was raised by protocol droids.” Could Rahara connect with this thing? She’d actually learned how to get through to Pax, from time to time. Maybe she could put that experience to good use. “By threepio units—not arcues—but all protocol droids must have a lot in common, right?”
“We have protocol in common,” the RQ said.
“Right! Exactly. Well, my friend, Pax—he said that protocol droids have a well-developed moral sense. Better than most humans, even.” Her voice shook as she spoke Pax’s name. Half the time, he’d driven her so crazy she’d wanted to toss him out of the nearest air lock. But the other half—Rahara swallowed hard. If she thought about Pax right now, she’d break down, and she was close enough to that already. “He—he said that if protocol droids made the rules, the galaxy would make a lot more sense.”
The RQ model pivoted at its waist to study her more closely. “This is fact.”
Mostly, she was just stalling. Rahara could see the intake doors three meters away, and knew she’d be marched through them, cuffed, and penned, then put to work here while awaiting reassignment. If she could trust her memories of others who had been recaptured, her next assignment wasn’t going to be anything cushy. Czerka would pack her off to the spice mines of Kessel, or bitterly cold construction work on Stygeon Prime. There would be no mercy for her.
“So, as a protocol droid, maybe you can tell me something.” Rahara wiped steam-damp hair away from her face. The scratchy Czerka coverall clung to her skin as if trying to asphyxiate her. “Why does Czerka keep people, when droids can do the work better, and last longer, and are cheaper? Why? What’s the point?”
The RQ unit cocked its head. “Czerka Corporation enslaves sentient beings because it can.” Then it sent her through to finish processing.
* * *
—
Qui-Gon walked from Czerka headquarters back toward the palace. Hovering candledroids illuminated his path, as well as some other areas around the grounds. At first, he took little note of them; the palace was always surrounded by illumination, and he was preoccupied with the idea of freeing Rahara Wick. If Meritt Col refused to either sell or barter for her, maybe he should adopt a…less legal approach. An individual starfighter or two might be able to slip through the Leverage’s defenses, if a distraction could be created.
But as he considered possible distractions (set a derelict craft to self-destruct?), his attention was gradually drawn back to the present. In the rapidly darkening night, it was becoming apparent that the area around the palace was brighter than usual. Significantly brighter. Stepping from the tree-lined path onto the broad lawn gave him a view of sentry guards and worker droids, hard at work around an entertainment pavilion, the broad balcony over the sea, and especially the Celestial Chalice.
When Qui-Gon walked through the palace door, he was greeted with a similar scene. Fresh flowers in brilliant colors had been heaped into pottery jugs set upon every flat surface. Two droids worked together to wax the floor of the great hallway—one rolling about to spread the wax, the other following behind to buff. One of the cooks was hurrying toward the kitchen, speaking into his comlink: “No, sixty fruit displays won’t be enough! We need at least eighty…yes, I know about the short notice, but there’s nothing to be done…”
“Jedi Jinn.” Minister Orth appeared, straightening her tan cloak. “Well. You don’t lack courage, I’ll grant you that.”
Qui-Gon elected not to take that conversational bait. “Where are you going?”
“To review the seating charts. Don’t worry. I don’t hold grudges. You’ll have a front-row view.” She gave him a thin smile before continuing on her way.
The coronation, he thought. The treaty. They can’t be going ahead with it, can they?
He hurried toward their quarters. Surely there was some message from the Jedi Council about this. Had Rael contacted them to request another representative? Had they been weak-willed enough to do it? Or had a new version of the constitution and treaty been drafted, setting everything to rights?
“Obi-Wan?” Qui-Gon called as he walked through the entrance into their shared living area. “Are you here?”
“Yes, Master.” Obi-Wan appeared in the doorway to his bedroom. He both looked and sounded subdued. “I am.”
“What the blazes is going on around here?” Qui-Gon shrugged off his robe.
“They’re preparing for the treaty ceremony,” Obi-Wan said. “The coronation, the constitution—all of it.”
“How, precisely, do they intend to go ahead with this?” Darker suspicions entered his mind. “Has Czerka convinced them they don’t need the Republic at all?”
Obi-Wan shook his head. “No, Master. Nothing like that.” He swallowed hard. “The Jedi Council—the Council has named me the rightful representative of the Republic, for the purposes of the ceremony.”
A Padawan representing the entire Republic? Even a Padawan as strong as Obi-Wan? It made no sense. “Rael contacted them, and this was their answer?”
“I contacted them.” Obi-Wan straightened up. “You and Master Averross had reached an impasse. Neither of you was willing to seek the Council’s advice. So I had to do it. I never thought this is what they’d decide, but it’s what they’ve asked me to do.”
The sense of abandonment—of betrayal—closed around Qui-Gon like a fist. Obi-Wan had done this?
It took him several silent moments to come up with any words. “You’re willing to sign a treaty and ratify a constitution that will seal both slavery and Czerka Corporation in place on this planet forever?”
“No, Master.” Obi-Wan shook his head so quickly that, in less dire circumstances, it would’ve been comical. “The Senate committee drafted a clause saying that essentially the treaty’s terms are only temporary—really, it’s just a way to open the hyperspace corridor and get the democratic assembly into office. Then Pijal has to offer a new constitution and a new treaty to the Republic within one local year. Of course the Senate has strongly indicated the changes they expect to see.”
“Which they won’t,” Qui-Gon said. “Are they naïve enough to think that Czerka won’t bribe every newly elected official? Are you? The lone advantage of leaving authority in the hands of a monarchy is that you only have to convince one person to create positive change. Now there will be hundreds with scraps of authority, many of whom will already be financially tied to Czerka.”
Obi-Wan’s expression shifted from shamefaced to stubborn. “You’ve always claimed to have faith in democratic institutions. You praised them only a few days ago! Is it so different here on Pijal?”
“Maybe not. But may
be it is.” Qui-Gon sank down heavily on the nearest chair. The images from his dream flooded into his mind, and he had to envision Obi-Wan amid the conflict and the bloodshed, fighting for his life. “None of this changes the vision I’ve seen of the future. But of course, you don’t believe in the vision. You don’t believe in prophecy.”
“I believe in you, Master,” Obi-Wan insisted, crestfallen again. “More than I think you realize. But I also believe that the future is always in motion.”
“Thanks to your interference,” Qui-Gon said, “Pijal’s future is written in blood.”
He walked out, leaving his apprentice behind.
“Useless,” said Pax Maripher.
He sat in the cargo hold of the Meryx, which was illuminated only by the glow of the scanner-blocking field. Proper procedure at the conclusion of a trip called for taking stock of all items sold and obtained. For this voyage, the profit came solely from his bargain with Czerka, which felt even more stained than it had before. Besides that, he had nothing to show for the trip other than an empty pilot’s chair next to him, and piles of kohlen crystals.
Kohlen. The whole reason they’d come to Pijal. Fool’s kyber would be a better name for it. If he’d been able to tell the difference, then the Meryx would’ve gone on to Gamorr as planned. Instead, he had a mediocre haul of a gem that was semiprecious at best, a bunch of orange crystals that were completely useless, and…no copilot/minerals analyst.
Remain calm, he told himself. Of course it’s terribly inconvenient, but someone else can be hired, and quickly, too. There are always a large number of pilots looking for work.
That’s what the droids who raised him would’ve said. Every bit of it was factual, and therefore it was a reasonable, rational way to react to the loss of his copilot. As he had repeatedly stated, their relationship was strictly one of business, without any time-wasting deviations into friendship or…