Star Wars: Ahsoka

by Johnston, E. K.

He’d gone to Shmi Skywalker’s grave to apologize for losing her son. He had never met her, knew her only from Anakin’s stories, but Qui-Gon had made her a promise and Obi-Wan hadn’t been able to keep it. As he stood there, looking at the stone, he felt an even deeper shame. Qui-Gon had left her there a slave, and Obi-Wan had done everything in his power to prevent Anakin’s return. It was only the love of a good man, here on Tatooine, that had saved her—the kind of love the Jedi were supposed to eschew. Yet it had done something the Jedi could not.

  But that was the past. What he did now, he did for an uncertain future and for hope. He had trusted in the light side of the Force for his entire life. There was no call for him to stop now. He found the center of his meditation, the quiet place where there was no emotion, no resistance, no worldly bonds. He rooted his feet in that place and reached again.

  Still nothing.

  Obi-Wan shook himself out of the trance, more annoyed with his failure than disappointed, and found he was still sitting on the floor of Ben Kenobi’s house. It was sparsely appointed, only the basic necessities. He hadn’t been there long, but he got the feeling that even if he stayed until Luke Skywalker had a long gray beard, he still wouldn’t accumulate many possessions. Tatooine wasn’t that sort of place.

  He stood up, his knees creaking in a rather alarming fashion. Surely he wasn’t that old yet. It must be the desert climate that affected him strangely. He got a small cup, filled it with water, and then returned to his seat on the floor. Something caught his attention, one of the few pieces of his old life that he’d taken with him to his desert solitude.

  Anakin Skywalker’s lightsaber.

  It was all that was left of the man who had been, often simultaneously, Obi-Wan’s greatest annoyance, his brother, and his closest friend. If any other part of Anakin had survived, it was lost to evil and darkness. Obi-Wan couldn’t save him any more than he could save any Jedi who was still at large in the galaxy, trying to find footing in the new order. All Obi-Wan could do was make sure the child Luke survived to adulthood, and train him if he exhibited his father’s talents.

  He wondered briefly how the daughter was faring under Bail Organa’s tutelage.

  Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

  Down he plunged, through memory and dream. There was Commander Cody, handing him back his lightsaber only to blast him off the cavern wall moments later. There was Anakin, laughing as he made some improbably difficult landing, saving all their lives again. There was Ahsoka, her hands on her hips, her endless questions challenging him at every turn. There was Palpatine, as Chancellor, his disguise so complete that Obi-Wan couldn’t detect his villainy even when he knew where to look.

  He made himself pass them all by. It was easier this time. It grew easier every time. That made his heart hurt, to think he was so fickle that he could turn his back on them to achieve his own ends. When he thought it, he heard Yoda, reminding him that his work was important, that he must focus on the future alone, obscuring the past and even ignoring the present if he must. He had to break through.

  He reached the bottom again, the quiet place where his doubts, loves, and fears were gone. Then he realized it wasn’t the bottom, not quite. There was another level below.

  Obi-Wan let go of Ben Kenobi’s house, the last place in the galaxy where a piece of Anakin Skywalker rested, and broke through the wall between life and death.

  It was dark there if he wanted to take anything with him or leave anything behind, but he wished for neither of those things, so he stood in the light. His senses were sharp. He could hear every sound at once, and also none of them. It took him a moment to focus on the voice he wanted most to hear.

  Alone and connected. Aloof and hopelessly entwined. Obi-Wan had only a moment before he was wrenched back into the physical world, but it was long enough to renew his hope.

  “Obi-Wan,” said Qui-Gon Jinn. He was sure the voice was stronger this time. “Let go.”

  THE SIXTH BROTHER’S return to Raada had not been as triumphant as he had hoped. He had not been able to make a positive identification of the Jedi, but he was fairly certain that any news of his forthcoming actions on the farming moon would reach the Padawan’s attention. He’d tracked a series of happy accidents—happy, that is, for the people who had been saved from run-ins with the Empire. The events had Jedi do-gooding written all over them: low death count, grateful civilians, and a lack of official records. All he had to do was make sure that someone on Raada was left to send a distress call in the right direction and the Jedi would come to him.

  His first order of business, after he landed and squared away his ship, was to read the situation updates on the insurgents. As he’d suspected, the local troops had made no inroads in capturing them, which suited him just fine. The district commander seemed to be avoiding him, which also suited his purposes, so he called in the chief interrogator instead.

  “I require information on the girl who escaped your custody,” he said, cutting straight to the chase. Interrogators usually appreciated the direct approach, which was something he admired about them. “Her appearance, preferably. Not her character.”

  “She had dark skin,” the interrogator said. “And her hair was in braids when I saw her, but unless she’s found someone to redo them, I imagine she’ll be wearing a scarf or something now.”

  “Why couldn’t she fix them herself?” the Inquisitor asked.

  “Her arm is broken,” was the reply. “The right. I think there may also be damage to her shoulder, but I couldn’t be sure.”

  “Are your methods so callous?” It was always nice to trade professional information.

  “No, the arm was an accident,” the interrogator said. “Our initial torture scared her so badly that when I mentioned the possibility of revisiting it, she knocked herself over and pinned the arm under her chair.”

  “You have been most helpful,” the Inquisitor said. “You’re dismissed.”

  The interrogator was smart enough not to take umbrage at someone with no discernible rank issuing orders. That sort of person was likely to do well in the Imperial hierarchy, which required a certain amount of flexibility. The Sixth Brother made a note to write a commendation. His job, and the jobs of his brothers and sisters, would be easier if the upper ranks were populated by people who listened to them.

  Alone, the Inquisitor called up the map of the moon’s surface, to refresh his memory of the geography. It took him only a few moments to identify the best places to hide a large group of people, and then he closed the terminal and headed for the door. It was time to stop asking questions and go hunting.

  Kaeden had played, in her estimation, approximately ten billion games of crokin since Ahsoka had rescued her and left Raada. It had been Miara’s suggestion. With a broken arm and limited medical options, Kaeden needed to learn to use her other hand, and crokin was the easiest way to do that. She played with her sister frequently, but her most common opponent was Neera. Once the sedatives had worn off, Neera had shambled around the cave like part of her was missing, and Kaeden thought that wasn’t far from the truth. The only time Neera showed any spark was when they played. Neera always trounced her, but if it made her feel better, then Kaeden was happy to lose.

  Aside from the board game and the ability to take herself to the bathroom, living in hiding from the Empire was not all that different from being imprisoned by it. The food was terrible. The lighting was bad. She was nervous and jumpy, startling at every sound. But there were no torture machines, so at least she had that going for her. And her sister was with her and safe, mostly, so she had that, too.

  Reaching up with her good hand, Kaeden readjusted the scarf she was using to contain her hair. Her usual braids had fared about as well under torture as she had, and she hadn’t been able to fix them one-handed. Miara had given it her best shot, but despite her ability to make tiny circuits that could explode when properly triggered, Miara had no gift for braiding. Kaeden ended up taking them out entirely and t
hen had to do her best to deal with the bushy volume hanging loose. She should probably have cut it, but she knew her arm would get better eventually, and she liked the long braids. She could be patient.

  Or she could be patient with her hair, at least. Being patient while they hid out from the Empire was an entirely different matter. No one talked about it, because it felt too much like speaking ill of the dead, but Kaeden could tell that even the most hotheaded of them was wishing they’d never listened to Hoban. As their supplies ran low, there was talk of who should go into town for more and arguments about whether or not they should just try to leave the planet altogether.

  “Do you think it’s strange that the Imperials haven’t found us yet?” Miara said. She sat down beside Kaeden, who was flicking crokin pieces at the center of the board. Her aim was getting better, but not by much.

  “We did take out the walkers before things went sideways,” Kaeden said. “But you’re right. They have to know there are only so many places we could hide. Even the densest stormtroopers should have checked here by now.”

  “What do you think they’re waiting for?” Miara asked.

  “I think they’re busy looking for something else,” Kaeden said. “It’s not like we’re a threat to them.”

  “But Ahsoka’s gone,” Miara said.

  “She said she’d come back,” Kaeden reminded her. She’d said it a hundred times if she’d said it once, and every time, a little more of her surety died.

  Miara looked at her witheringly. It was an old look for a young face, and Kaeden didn’t like it.

  “Why would she come back?” Miara asked. “There’s nothing here.”

  “There’s us,” Kaeden said, ignoring Miara’s implication that Kaeden believed Ahsoka would return solely on her account. “She might come back for us.”

  “Her and what army?” Miara asked. “Or would you leave everyone else behind to save yourself?”

  Kaeden couldn’t say it, couldn’t see the look of disgust she knew her sister would give her if she did, but the truth was that she would leave Raada in a heartbeat if she could. If it would save her, or Miara, from ever feeling that machine on her chest again, she would do it. Guilt was a long pain, but it was survivable. She wasn’t sure how long she’d hold up if she was tortured again.

  “Stop that,” Miara said, and Kaeden realized she was rubbing her chest. The machine hadn’t even left a mark. All Miara could see was that Kaeden was twitchy and constantly scared. At least no one accused her of being lovesick, even when they might have needed a laugh.

  Neera sat down opposite Kaeden, across the crokin board, and began dividing the discs by color. She never asked if Kaeden wanted to play; she didn’t do much talking at all anymore, so this was how their games usually began. Kaeden was preparing to lose spectacularly again when Kolvin, who was on sentry duty, crawled out of the connecting tunnel, an alarmed expression on his face.

  “There’s something coming,” he said.

  “Stormtroopers?” Kaeden asked. “In the tanks?”

  With the walkers out of commission, the tanks were the only ground transport option the Imperials had. They were slow and lumbering and didn’t do well in hills, but stormtroopers didn’t seem overly fond of walking.

  “No,” Kolvin said. “Just one person. But moving really fast. They’ll be here soon.”

  The main entrance was always locked. They’d spent time increasing the camouflage around the hidden entrances. It was one of the few activities they could manage safely without attracting attention. The weak point in their defense was the sentry door. They had to decide if they wanted to collapse it and lose their vantage point permanently or risk leaving it open. For Kaeden, it wasn’t a hard choice at all, but she wasn’t the one issuing orders.

  Everyone looked at Miara. She wasn’t in command, either. No one really was, but the charges were her design. If they were going to be set off, she was the one to do it.

  “It’ll take me a few moments to get everything ready,” Miara said. “Kolvin, do we have that kind of time?”

  “We do if we go now,” he said. His wide black eyes gleamed, even in the dim of the cave.

  “I’m coming with you,” Kaeden said.

  Miara paused. “You can’t crawl yet,” she said. “And you can’t help with the charges.”

  “I don’t want us to be separated,” Kaeden insisted.

  “Then let me go so I can come back in a hurry,” Miara said.

  “Your sister’s right,” Neera said. “They can kill one of you together as easily as they can apart. You might as well stay here and play crokin with me. It’s your turn anyway.”

  Kaeden gaped at her, shocked that even in grief Neera could say something so awful. Miara took advantage of her sister’s distraction and dove into the tunnel with Kolvin on her heels. Time seemed to stretch out forever, but then the ground shook slightly, and Kaeden knew that the sentry point had been taken care of. She wished she’d gotten a look at the approaching figure. She didn’t like not knowing what was coming for them.

  Neera tapped her on her injured shoulder, and she winced. The older girl gestured to the board.

  “It’s your turn, Kaeden,” she said, as though they were sitting at Selda’s at the end of their shift.

  Kaeden picked up a disc and debated her next shot.

  Jenneth Pilar was packing. There was no rhyme or reason to the Empire once Force wielders got involved. Every one of his painstaking calculations was ignored and all his formulae were unbalanced by the very presence of such mythology, and he had no more patience for it. The one who called himself the Sixth Brother was back, and that meant that all Jenneth’s well-planned methodologies were about to be jettisoned in favor of some scheme involving a so-called Jedi.

  Everyone knew the Jedi were dead. So far from the Core, there were few people who had any faith in the Jedi Order at all. Jenneth didn’t admire much about the Outer Rim, but he could respect that. The Force had no place in an ordered galaxy. It simply couldn’t be accounted for in the math.

  He paused, looking around his quarters for anything he might have forgotten. His eyes fell on the datapad he’d used to calculate exactly how much of what the Empire needed could be extracted from the moon’s surface before destroying it for future generations. All that fuss for a plant. Just a simple plant that could be processed into a nutritional supplement that allowed people working in low gravity to process oxygen more efficiently. He couldn’t imagine it was worth the trouble the Empire had gone to in order to procure it.

  He threw the datapad into his case and shut the latches. It was hardly his problem. He’d been paid, and he’d seen the job along as far as he could before it got out of his control. There was no reason for the Imperials to think he’d slighted them, and there was no reason for him to stay on the benighted moon a moment longer. He was going back to a planet with real trees, real food, a real bed, and no lingering smell of fertilizer.

  In the fields, the farmers labored under duress and the little plants grew taller. A few more days and the harvest could begin.

  IN HER FAVOR, the armored figure hadn’t yet drawn a weapon. They really did want to talk. Ahsoka’s own blaster still hung at her side, but she could get to it if she needed to. It didn’t matter how quickly the figure could draw and fire, Ahsoka would be faster. Her Jedi-trained reflexes were more than sufficient for that. At the same time, she knew that there was no point in a firefight unless she was provoked. The Black Sun agent had come looking for Ashla, so Ashla could deal with them.

  “I’m surprised Black Sun has heard of me,” Ahsoka said. She relaxed her shoulders but stayed alert, her eyes scanning the visitor’s armor for weaknesses and her feelings seeking out the surge of aggression that would precipitate a fight.

  “My organization keeps watch on this whole sector,” the agent said. The voice modulator made the words difficult to understand. It must be an old machine. Either this agent was new and couldn’t afford good tech yet, or they were season
ed and had had their gear for a while. “We tend to notice when our business ventures go awry.”

  Business ventures was not the term Ahsoka would have used. She considered all forms of sentient-being trafficking abhorrent. She absently calculated how long it would take to get her ship in the air from her starting position at the bottom of the ramp. The freighter wasn’t designed for quick takeoffs, but you could generally push a ship to do anything once, and this might be her one time.

  “Well,” she said. “I don’t know much about that sort of thing. I’m just a hired pilot.”

  “My organization is aware of that, too,” the agent said. “You’re much better than those petty Fardi scum. Whatever they’re paying you, we’ll double it.”

  “You’re offering me a job.” Ahsoka’s voice was flat.

  “We are,” the agent said. “Lucrative contracts, and all the benefits that come with working for such a high-level organization.”

  Ahsoka almost wished the agent had come in firing.

  “I had a certain amount of freedom with the Fardis,” she said. “I doubt your employers would continue to let me be so independent.”

  “There are some limitations they would expect you to accept,” the agent conceded. They shifted, and Ahsoka saw that the knee plating on their armor was cracked. That would be her first target, if it came to that. “And there’s also the matter of the credits you owe them.”

  “I don’t owe anyone anything,” Ahsoka said.

  “Oh, but you do,” the agent said. “You’ve cost Black Sun thousands of credits, and you’ll pay them back one way or another.”

  “This is sounding less and less like a job,” Ahsoka said.

  “Your corpse is also acceptable,” the agent said.

  “Do I get some time to think about it?” Ahsoka asked.

  “Not long,” the agent said. “There will be others searching for you. I’m lucky I found you first.”

  If Black Sun wanted a smuggler they felt had snubbed them badly enough to send out bounty hunters, then a suspected Jedi would be an even better target. She couldn’t reveal herself to this agent any more than she could have to the Imperials back on Thabeska. It would mean more people chasing her, and while she knew that she could handle them, she had others to consider. Wherever she set down next would become a target, just by virtue of her presence. She had to be careful.