Shatterpoint

by Matthew W. Stover

  This was why Depa Billaba came to Haruun Kal.

  I sent her here.

  The Al’Har system—of which Haruun Kal is the sole planet—lies on the nexus of several hyperspace lanes: the hub of a wheel called the Gevarno Loop, whose spokes join the Separatist systems of Killisu, Jutrand, Loposi, and the Gevarno Cluster with Opari, Ventran, and Ch’manss—all Loyalist. Due to local stellar configurations and the mass sensitivities of modern hyperdrives, any ship traveling from one of these systems to another can cut several standard days off its journey by coming through Al’Har, even counting the daylong realspace transit of the system itself.

  None of these systems has any vast strategic value—but the Republic has lost too many systems to secession to risk losing any to conquest. Control of the Al’Har nexus offers control of the whole region. It was decided that Haruun Kal is worth the Council’s attention—and not solely for its military uses.

  In the Temple archives are reports of the Jedi anthropologists who studied the Korun tribes. They have a theory that a Jedi spacecraft may have made a forced landing there, perhaps thousands of years ago during the turmoil of the Sith War, when so many Jedi were lost to history. There are several varieties of fungi native to the jungles of Haruun Kal that eat metals and silicates; a ship that could not lift off again immediately would be grounded forever, and comm equipment would be equally vulnerable. The ancestors of the Korunnai, the anthropologists believe, were these shipwrecked Jedi.

  This is their best explanation for a curious genetic fact: all Korunnai can touch the Force.

  The true explanation may be simpler: we have to. Those who cannot use the Force do not long survive. Humans can’t live in those jungles; the Korunnai survive by following their grasser herds. Grassers, great six-limbed behemoths, tear down the jungle with their forehands and massive jaws. Their name comes from the grassy meadows that are left in their wake. It is in those meadows that the Korunnai make their precarious lives. The grassers protect the Korunnai from the jungle; the Korunnai, in turn—with their Force-bonded companions, the fierce akk dogs—protect the grassers.

  When the Jedi anthropologists were ready to depart, they had asked the elders of ghôsh Windu if they might take with them a child to train in the Jedi arts, thus recovering the Force talents of the Korunnai to serve the peace of the galaxy.

  That would be me.

  I was an infant, an orphan, called by the name of my ghôsh, for my parents had been taken by the jungle before my naming day. I was six months old. The choice was made for me.

  I’ve never minded.

  It is the Korunnai that Depa came here to train and use as antigovernment partisans. The civil government of Haruun Kal is entirely Balawai: off-worlders and their descendants, beneficiaries of the financial interests behind the thyssel bark trade. Government of the Balawai, by the Balawai, and for the Balawai.

  No Korun need apply.

  The government—and the planetary militia, their military arm—joined the Confederacy of Independent Systems as a cynical dodge to squelch an ongoing Judicial Department investigation into their treatment of the Korun natives; in exchange for the use of the capital’s spaceport as a base to conduct repair and refit for the Al’har fleet of droid starfighters, the Separatists provided arms for the militia and turned a blind eye toward illegal Balawai activities in the Korunnal Highland.

  But since Depa arrived, the Separatists have discovered that even the smallest bands of determined guerrillas can have a devastating effect on military operations.

  Especially when all these guerrillas can touch the Force.

  This was a large part of Depa’s argument for coming here in the first place, and why she insisted on handling it personally. Untrained Force users can be exceedingly dangerous; wild talents crop up unpredictably in such populations. Depa’s mastery of Vaapad makes her virtually unbeatable in personal combat, and her own cultural training—in the elegant philosophico-mystical disciplines of the Chalactan Adepts—makes her uniquely resistant to all forms of mental manipulation, from Force-powered suggestion to brainwashing by torture.

  I believe she may have also nursed a private hope that some of the Korunnai might be persuaded to enlist in the Grand Army of the Republic; a cadre of Force-capable commandos could take a great deal of the pressure off the Jedi and accomplish missions that no clone troopers could hope to survive.

  I suspect, too, that part of the reason she insisted on taking this mission was sentimental: I think she came here because Haruun Kal is where I was born.

  Though this world has never been my true home, I bear its stamp to this day.

  The Korun culture is based on a simple premise, what they call the Four Pillars: Honor, Duty, Family, Herd.

  The First Pillar is Honor, your obligation to yourself. Act with integrity. Speak the truth. Fight without fear. Love without reservation.

  Greater than this is the Second Pillar, Duty, your obligation to others. Do your job. Work hard. Obey the elders. Stand by your ghôsh.

  Greater still is the Third Pillar, Family. Care for your parents. Love your spouse. Teach your children. Defend your blood.

  Greatest of all is the Fourth Pillar, Herd, for it is on the grasser herds that the life of the ghôsh depends. Your family is more important than your duty; your duty outweighs your honor. But nothing is more important than your herd. If the well-being of the herd requires the sacrifice of your honor, you do it. If it requires that you shirk your duty, you do it.

  Whatever it takes.

  Even your family.

  Yoda once observed that—though I left Haruun Kal as an infant, and returned only once, as a youth, to train in the Korun Force-bond with the great akks—he thinks I have the Four Pillars in my veins along with my Korun blood. He said that Honor and Duty are as natural to me as breathing, and that the only real difference my Jedi training has made is that the Jedi have become my Family, and the Republic itself is my Herd.

  This is flattering. I hope it might be true, but I don’t have an opinion on the subject. I’m not interested in opinions. I’m interested in facts.

  This is a fact: I found the shatterpoint of the Gevarno Loop.

  Another fact: Depa volunteered to strike it.

  And another fact—

  That she said: I have become the darkness in the jungle.

  The spaceport at Pelek Baw smelled clean. It wasn’t. Typical backworld port: filthy, disorganized, half choked with rusted remnants of disabled ships.

  Mace stepped off the shuttle ramp and slung his kitbag by its strap. Smothering wet heat pricked sweat across his bare scalp. He raised his eyes from the ocher-scaled junk and discarded crumples of empty nutripacks scattered around the landing bay, up into the misty turquoise sky.

  The white crown of Grandfather’s Shoulder soared above the city: the tallest mountain on the Korunnal Highland, an active volcano with dozens of open calderae. Mace remembered the taste of the snow at the tree line, the thin cold air and the aromatic resins of the evergreen scrub below the summit.

  He had spent far too much of his life on Coruscant.

  If only he could have come here for some other reason.

  Any other reason.

  A straw-colored shimmer in the air around him explained the clean smell: a surgical sterilization field. He’d expected it. The spaceport had always had a powered-up surgical field umbrella, to protect ships and equipment from the various native fungi that fed on metals and silicates; the field also wiped out the bacteria and molds that would otherwise have made the spaceport smell like an overloaded refresher.

  The spaceport’s pro-biotic showers were still in their long, low blockhouse of mold-stained duracrete, but their entrance had been expanded into a large temporary-looking office of injection-molded plastifoam, with a foam-slab door that hung askew on half-sprung hinges. The door was streaked with rusty stains that had dripped from the fungus-chewed durasteel sign above. The sign said CUSTOMS. Mace went in.

  Sunlight leaked gre
en through mold-tracked windows. Climate control wheezed a body-temperature breeze from ceiling vents, and the smell loudly advertised that this place was well beyond the reach of the surgical field.

  Inside the customs office, enough flybuzz hummed to get the two Kubaz chuckling and eagerly nudging each other. Mace didn’t quite manage to ignore the Pho Ph’eahian broadly explaining to a bored-looking human that he’d just jumped in from Kashyyyk and boy, were his legs tired. The agent seemed to find this about as tolerable as Mace did; he hurriedly passed the comedians along after the pair of Kubaz, and they all disappeared into the shower blockhouse.

  Mace found a different customs agent: a Neimoidian female with pink-slitted eyes, cold-bloodedly sleepy in the heat. She looked over his identikit incuriously. “Corellian, hnh? Purpose of your visit?”

  “Business.”

  She sighed tiredly. “You’ll need a better answer than that. Corellia’s no friend of the Confederacy.”

  “Which would be why I’m doing business here.”

  “Hnh. I scan you. Open your bag for inspection.”

  Mace thought about the “old-fashioned glow rod” stashed in his bag. He wasn’t sure how convincing its shell would be to Neimoidian eyes, which could see deep into the infrared.

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Do I care? Open it.” She squinted a dark pink eye up at him. “Hey, nice skin job. You could almost pass for a Korun.”

  “Almost?”

  “You’re too tall. And they mostly have hair. And anyway, Korunnai are all Force freaks, yes? They have powers and stuff.”

  “I have powers.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Sure.” Mace hooked his thumbs behind his belt. “I have the power to make ten credits appear in your hand.”

  The Neimoidian looked thoughtful. “That’s a pretty good power. Let’s see it.”

  He passed his hand over the customs agent’s desk, and let fall a coin he’d palmed from his belt’s slit pocket. The Neimoidian had powers of her own: she made the coin disappear. “Not bad.” She turned up her empty hand. “Let’s see it again.”

  “Let’s see my identikit validated and my bag passed.”

  The Neimoidian shrugged and complied, and Mace did his trick again. “Power like yours, you’ll get along fine in Pelek Baw,” she said. “Pleasure doing business with you. Be sure to take your PB tabs. And see me on your way offworld. Ask for Pule.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Toward the back of the customs office, a large advertiscreen advised everyone entering Pelek Baw to use the pro-biotic showers before leaving the spaceport. The showers replaced beneficial skin flora that had been killed by the surgical field. This advice was supported with gruesomely graphic holos of the wide variety of fungal infections awaiting unshowered travelers. A dispenser beneath the screen offered half-credit doses of tablets guaranteed to restore intestinal flora as well. Mace bought a few, took one, then stepped into the shower blockhouse.

  The blockhouse had a smell all its own: a dark musky funk, rich and organic. The showers themselves were simple autonozzles spraying bacterium-rich nutrient mist; they lined the walls of a thirty-meter walk-through. Mace stripped off his clothes and stuffed them into his kitbag. There was a conveyor strip for possessions beside the walk-through entrance, but he held on to the bag. A few germs wouldn’t do it any harm.

  At the far end of the showers, he walked into a situation.

  The dressing station was loud with turbine-driven airjet dryers. The two Kubaz and the comedy team, still naked, milled uncertainly in one corner. A large surly-looking human in sun-bleached khakis and a military cap stood facing them, impressive arms folded across his equally impressive chest. He stared at the naked travelers with cold unspecific threat.

  A smaller human in identical clothing rummaged through their bags, which were piled behind the large man’s legs. The smaller man had a bag of his own, into which he dropped anything small and valuable. Both men had stun batons dangling from belt loops, and blasters secured in snap-flap holsters.

  Mace nodded thoughtfully. The situation was clear enough. Based on who he was supposed to be, he should just ignore this. But cover or not, he was still a Jedi.

  The big one looked Mace over. Head to toe and back again. His stare had the open insolence that came of being clothed and armed and facing someone who was naked and dripping wet. “Here’s another. Smart guy carried his own bag.”

  The other rose and unlooped his stun baton. “Sure, smart guy. Let’s have the bag. Inspection. Come on.”

  Mace went still. Pro-bi mist condensed to rivulets and trickled down his bare skin. “I can read your mind,” he said darkly. “You only have three ideas, and all of them are wrong.”

  “Huh?”

  Mace flipped up a thumb. “You think being armed and ruthless means you can do whatever you want.” He folded his thumb and flipped up his forefinger. “You think nobody will stand up to you when they’re naked.” He folded that one again and flipped up the next. “And you think you’re going to look inside my bag.”

  “Oh, he’s a funny one.” The smaller man spun his stun baton and stepped toward him. “He’s not just smart, he’s funny.”

  The big man moved to his flank. “Yeah, regular comedian.”

  “The comedians are over there.” Mace inclined his head toward the Pho Ph’eahian and his Kitonak partner, naked and shivering in the corner. “See the difference?”

  “Yeah?” The big man flexed big hands. “What are you supposed to be, then?”

  “I’m a prophet.” Mace lowered his voice as though sharing a secret. “I can see the future…”

  “Sure you can.” He set his stubble-smeared jaw and showed jagged yellow teeth. “What do you see?”

  “You,” Mace said. “Bleeding.”

  His expression might have been a smile if there had been the faintest hint of warmth in his eyes.

  The big man suddenly looked less confident.

  In this he could perhaps be excused; like all successful predators, he was interested only in victims. Certainly not in opponents. Which was the purpose of his particular racket, after all: members of any sapient species who were culturally accustomed to wearing clothes would feel hesitant, uncertain, and vulnerable when caught naked. Especially humans. Any normal person would stop to put on pants before throwing a punch.

  Mace Windu, in contrast, looked like he might know of uncertainty and vulnerability by reputation, but had never met either of them face-to-face.

  One hundred eighty-eight centimeters of muscle and bone. Absolutely still. Absolutely relaxed. From his attitude, the pro-bi mist that trickled down his naked skin might have been carbon-fiber-reinforced ceramic body armor.

  “Do you have a move to make?” Mace said. “I’m in a hurry.”

  The big man’s gaze twitched sideways, and he said, “Uh—?” Mace felt a pressure in the Force over his left kidney and heard the sizzle of a triggered stun baton. He spun and caught the wrist of the smaller man with both hands, shoving the baton’s sparking corona well clear with a twist that levered his face into the path of Mace’s rising foot. The impact made a smack as wet and meaty as the snap of bone. The big man bellowed and lunged and Mace stepped to one side and whipcracked the smaller man’s arm to spin his slackening body. Mace caught the small man’s head in the palm of one hand and shoved it crisply into the big man’s nose.

  The two men skidded in a tangle on the slippery, damp floor and went down. The baton spat lightning as it skittered into a corner. The smaller man lay limp. The big man’s eyes spurted tears and he sat on the floor, trying with both hands to massage his smashed nose into shape. Blood leaked through his fingers.

  Mace stood over him. “Told you.”

  The big man didn’t seem impressed. Mace shrugged. A prophet, it was said, received no honor on his own world.

  Mace dressed silently while the other travelers reclaimed their belongings. The big man made no attempt to stop them, or even to
rise. Presently the smaller man stirred, moaned, and opened his eyes. As soon as they focused well enough to see Mace still in the dressing station, he cursed and clawed at his holster flap, struggling to free his blaster.

  Mace looked at him.

  The man decided his blaster was better off where it was.

  “You don’t know how much trouble you’re in,” he muttered sullenly as he settled back down on the floor, words blurred by his smashed mouth. He drew his knees up and wrapped his arms around them. “People who butch up with capital militia don’t live long around—”

  The big man interrupted him with a cuff on the back of his head. “Shut it.”

  “Capital militia?” Mace understood now. His face settled into a grim mask, and he finished buckling down his holster. “You’re the police.”

  The Pho Ph’eahian mimed a pratfall. “You’d think they’d hire cops who weren’t so clumsy, eh?”

  “Oh, I dunno, Phootie,” the Kitonak said in a characteristically slow, terminally relaxed voice. “They bounced real nice.”

  Both Kubaz whirred something about slippery floors, inappropriate footwear, and unfortunate accidents.

  The cops scowled.

  Mace squatted in front of them. His right hand rested on the Power 5’s butt. “It’d be a shame if somebody had a blaster malfunction,” he said. “A slip, a fall—sure, it’s embarrassing. It hurts. But you’ll get over it in a day or two. If somebody’s blaster accidentally went off when you fell—?” He shrugged. “How long will it take you to get over being dead?”

  The smaller cop started to spit back something venomous. The larger one interrupted him with another cuff. “We scan you,” he growled. “Just go.”

  Mace stood. “I remember when this was a nice town.”

  He shouldered his kitbag and walked out into the blazing tropical afternoon. He passed under a dented, rusty sign without looking up.

  The sign said: WELCOME TO PELEK BAW.