Kenobi: Star Wars

by John Jackson Miller

  Atop the rise, Ben cracked a small smile. “To hear you talk, anyone in my care would be dead in five minutes.”

  “We’ll see,” she said, turning back to her speeder. “See you, Ben.”

  If he’s hiding, he’s new at it, she thought, settling into the driver’s seat. In her years of running the store, Annileen had seen her share of people trying to disappear. From spouses, from Republic justice, from the Hutts—there had even been one runaway from a traveling circus. One thing she’d noticed: in an area where everyone knew everyone else’s business, the more nondescript someone tried to seem, the more curious the neighbors became. You needed a label, so people could forget about you. She’d always joked that when her kids finally drove her to run to the hills, she’d become known as the crazy lady who stewed mynocks for dinner.

  Maybe Ben would figure that out, she thought as the engine revved. But he was certainly failing at shooing away interest. The man looked … well, sad whenever he thought she wasn’t looking. Anyone like that just had to have a story.

  Pulling away, Annileen circled a rock and looked back up the bluff. She saw Ben looking up at the suns—and removing his hood.

  Strange.

  Back at Dannar’s Claim, the hands from the Gault fields were in and gorging. Jabe was among them, back from Bestine. He didn’t look up when his mother walked in. She stepped past the diners to the tap to refill her canteen.

  Two trays balanced on each arm, Kallie paused to study her. “You forgot the dricklefruit.”

  “You’re the dricklefruit,” Annileen said, walking toward the back. “Any messages?”

  “One from your daughter, wanting to know what Ben said.”

  “He said thanks for the groceries.”

  Kallie rolled her eyes impatiently. “Wanting to know what Ben said about her.”

  Annileen emerged wearing an apron and looked primly back at Kallie. “He said he’s happy to know I have a daughter who’s such a good and loyal worker—and who minds her own business.”

  Kallie swore. Annileen didn’t bother to scold her. Seeing Ulbreck in mid-conversation, she stepped in to clear his table. “So, Wyle. Where were we?”

  A’Yark returned to The Pillars exhausted. Having seen the Airshaper depart the compound before double noon, the marauder had raced to a waiting bantha. But there was no hope of catching up with the landspeeder. The Airshaper’s route appeared to match her hairy-faced rescuer’s path from days earlier; it was a reasonable assumption that she had gone to see him. Perhaps they were spouses, after all.

  More useful information. A’Yark had intended to tell the others on returning. The Tuskens did not have war councils; it was not the way of Sand People to discuss and connive. Tuskens were so single-minded of goal, so similarly driven, that little coordination was necessary. They moved as a single entity. The only need for words was in sharing information about a target. With that, they would all know what to do.

  But a surprise waited in the shadows beneath the towering rocks. A gathering was under way—without A’Yark.

  A’Yark recognized the low grunts of Gr’Karr, oldest remaining member of the tribe. “The omen is good,” the old fighter was saying, clutching the horn of a young bantha calf. “Bounty comes to us. The time is right.”

  “What animal is this?” an incensed A’Yark demanded, barging into the circle. “And who told you to speak without me?”

  “I did,” barked another Tusken, huge and dominating. H’Raak was a recent addition, the last mighty survivor of another tribe. “No one needs to hear the words of A’Yark to know what to do.”

  The one-eyed Tusken ignored the brute. H’Raak had never accepted A’Yark’s role in the group, convinced his own size and strength meant all—a foolish belief. The dewback the Airshaper rode had been huge, and yet it yielded to the sarlacc. Sometimes it was better to lie in wait. “The calf. It wandered here?”

  Old Gr’Karr measured the beast’s hair. “The calf should be given to your son, wily one. A’Deen is Tusken now.”

  “No,” A’Yark said, paying no mind to the reference to the boy. “Not this bantha.” There was something wrong about it. A’Yark could tell. Tuskens and their banthas were one being, some said; A’Yark thought that was idle nonsense. But a warrior who did not understand his mount would not live long.

  A’Yark stepped closer. The calf stamped nervously. There was something familiar about the animal. No, not the animal, the warrior thought, reaching out and grasping a clump of its hair. The creature squealed, but did not move.

  “The Airshaper has touched it,” A’Yark said, releasing the bantha. The scent of the woman was plainly there, just as it had been on the wind that day on the pitted field.

  A murmur went through the circle. “Then it should die,” H’Raak said, lifting his gaderffii.

  “No.” A’Yark stood between the bantha calf and the others. “The human touched this calf today. She might have a bond with it.”

  The statement disquieted the group. Gr’Karr spoke haltingly. “A Tusken bond?”

  “The Airshaper rode a dewback. It died. She may have come here, seeking a new mount.” A’Yark paused, working it out. “The Airshaper may think as we do.”

  “Enough,” H’Raak said, pounding his weapon against the stony wall. “Enough foolishness! We should ride. A’Yark says the settlers strike at us from the compound. The compound must be destroyed—and the Airshaper slain!”

  “No.” A’Yark slapped the bantha, sending it on its way from the circle. “Kill the Smiling One who leads the posses, yes. Even Hairy Face, should he appear. But if the Airshaper respects the bantha, then perhaps she is no settler. She may join us.”

  A louder rumble emanated from the gathering. H’Raak laughed. “Join us?”

  “The Airshaper has great powers, and may also have a Tusken heart. How many settlers know the ways of the bantha?” A’Yark looked through the rocky towers to the north. “If no one else at the compound has the power of the Airshaper, then yes, certainly, we seize her. She learns our ways, she lives. If not, we will learn her powers—one way or another. And she dies.”

  “You make a mistake,” H’Raak said, the hulking warrior’s voice booming. “You think of the ootman, the Outlander who once joined your clan. That was long ago—and the Outlander is dead. His gods failed him.”

  “All gods fail.” A’Yark said, arms crossed. “The shadows of failure follow every living thing. Gods are no different.”

  “You do not lead,” H’Raak said, voice dripping with disdain. Both hands on his weapon, the behemoth threatened the smaller warrior.

  Enough of this. A’Yark looked coolly up at H’Raak and called out. “A’Deen!”

  From the caves where the younglings carved the dinner meats, A’Yark’s son appeared. “Yes, honored parent?”

  “You did pass the test, child?”

  “I am Tusken.” The shrouded youth lifted his gaderffii proudly.

  “That is well,” A’Yark said. A moment later, the one-eyed warrior’s arm shot upward, catching H’Raak beneath the chin. Another moment later, the others saw the knife, lodged in H’Raak’s throat.

  H’Raak dropped his gaderffii and stumbled backward, gagging. A’Yark kicked the warrior in the groin, knocking him to the ground. A few seconds’ more work and A’Yark rose, blackened blade in hand.

  Gr’Karr looked at the body and fretted. “We cannot spare any warriors, A’Yark.”

  “One was born, another died. All is equal.” A’Yark looked back. “A’Deen. You will need a bantha. Take H’Raak’s.”

  The old raider objected. “But the bantha should die with its rider. It’s our tradition—”

  “Many traditions are dying,” A’Yark said, wandering off into the darkness of The Pillars. Night was falling. There was much to plan.

  Meditation
/>
  Good morning, Qui-Gon.

  Quiet here, as always. I know there are seasons on this planet, but I’m still not sure which one I’m in. But it is peaceful.

  You know, we trained ourselves to be able to find solace even in the busiest places. Coruscant teemed with souls, and we meditated right at the center of it. By comparison, you’d think this place would be ideal for meditation.

  I can’t tell you why it isn’t.

  You used to say that in cases like this the problem wasn’t the place; it was the person. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do about that. It’s not as though I’m going to be any less worried about things after I’ve been here six months. Or six years, or however long it takes for hope to return to the galaxy. It’s not like I’m going to suddenly get my friends back. It’s not like I’m going to feel any better about what I had to do to poor Anakin. It’s not like—

  No.

  No, no. I’m sorry. I don’t feel like doing this right now.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE REPUBLIC. FOR A thousand generations, it had been out there. The bright center of the galaxy, shining light into the imaginations of everyone who lived on the Outer Rim. The Republic had seen tumult and change, invaders and oppressors. It had resisted the incursions of armored nomads and crazed cultists. It had even turned its back on the rest of the galaxy for a time, protecting itself against a dark age of fear and plague. But light had always returned.

  Weeks earlier, someone in the store had told Annileen that the Republic had changed yet again. She hadn’t paid much mind. The bright center for her meant Mos Eisley, the large spaceport in the distant east—a bustling metropolis that made the capital, Bestine, look like the farming community it really was. Annileen liked visiting Mos Eisley, despite its well-deserved reputation as a den of criminal activity—and on a day as slow as today, she would have found some business excuse to go.

  But Jabe and Kallie were both in Mos Espa, as was practically everyone else. The Comet Run Podrace was no Boonta Eve Classic, but it emptied the Pika Oasis as efficiently as the plague. Gloamer had shut down the garages and left with his crews; most of the independent mechanics, normally willing to profit from his absence, had followed suit. Kallie had rented half the livery animals to racegoers. And naturally, Orrin had given his vaporator crews the day off. His workers already spent so much time in the Claim that Annileen wondered if any of them could tell the difference between workdays and holidays anymore. Dannar’s one criticism of his best friend had been that Orrin confused popularity with profit. He made money, but he also spent a lot to look like a big man, too.

  Annileen would never be accused of making that mistake. She gave no thought to closing the store. The revelers would return in a spending mood, whether they’d won their bets or not. The evenings following races were the most lucrative in the store’s year. She’d cover her month’s expenses before last call.

  But the race days themselves were quiet. Annileen had shared a quiet breakfast with Leelee; Annileen had actually sat at a table for a change. Afterward, the Zeltron woman headed home, where she planned to lie in a luxurious coma all day until her family’s return. Annileen gave Old Ulbreck unlimited access to the bantha jerky jar with instructions to tell Erbaly Nap’tee, should she come by, that the store’s owner had emigrated to Heptooine. Finally, after supplying Bohmer with a full carafe of caf, she grabbed her floppy hat and satchel and stole into the southwestern yard.

  There she sat on a blanket in the shade of the store’s mammoth vaporator, her back against the machine’s frosty base, feeling every puff of cool air that wafted off the compressor. Datapad on her lap, she looked at the images and imagined. In seconds she was sitting on the coast of Baroonda, a place alive and teeming with nature. Or Capital Cay on Aquilaris, watching the seacroppers bring in their catch. Or on the Gold Beaches of Corellia—or some other locale.

  It was an old datapad, one she hadn’t looked at in years. She thumbed again through the pictures. More faraway places—distant both physically and into the past. The holo-emitter on the device didn’t work anymore, but she didn’t care. The collection of pictures was a hopeless wish list collated by a much younger person. The planets still existed, for sure; she doubted Chancellor Palpa-whoosit or anyone he was fighting had the power to change that. But the places were impossibly beyond her reach.

  She’d brought the datapad outside to refresh her memory about those distant places. Ben had gotten her thinking again about the galaxy—well-traveled company always did. She’d hoped to ask him if he had been to any of the worlds in her pictures. But the morning had passed with no Ben.

  It had been silly to expect him to come, Annileen thought. The man had already bought most of what he needed, and a lot of the prospector types could stay out for weeks at a time. Or perhaps he’d forgotten her mention of the day. Or maybe he was at the races, himself.

  She rejected the last possibility. That would make Ben like everyone else here—and thus far, he hadn’t seemed like that. But she had to admit she had no idea what he might do. Once again, she mentally calculated the time to traverse the distance from Ben’s house to the oasis on eopie-back. Why didn’t the man have a landspeeder? Just another mystery—but little puzzles were all that separated one day from another at the Claim.

  Sadly, this puzzle seemed doomed to have only three or four pieces.

  Doomed. This was the right datapad for thoughts like that. Annileen shifted back to another document and read. She had written it such a long time ago; it almost seemed scripted by another person.

  “My name is Annileen Thaney, and I would like to tell you about myself …”

  She hadn’t been Annileen Thaney in nearly twenty years. It had been that long since she’d written anything but a bill of sale. And what she read now aggravated her. The words were written by a child, about a child. Or rather, about a grown-up who would never exist.

  Annileen grew increasingly disgusted with each paragraph—until finally, she reached her breaking point. She stood and turned to the right, where a sand berm had piled up behind the vaporator. Grasping the datapad in one hand, she twisted her torso and hurled the device. The datapad spun like a discus, sailing over the dune and out of sight.

  Annileen plopped back down on the blanket, satisfied and ashamed in equal parts. It was an old device, rarely used—and what was on it was of no use to anyone. Let the Jawas have it.

  But suddenly she realized she’d never heard it land.

  “Lose something?” Ben said. The cloaked man stood atop the dune, with the suns high behind him and the eopie at his side. In his right hand, he held the datapad.

  Annileen stumbled as she tried to get up. “Sorry,” she said, quickly recovering her composure. “I hope I didn’t hit you with that.”

  Ben held up the datapad, amused. “Obsolete model?”

  “Obsolete life,” Annileen said, grinning. “And I can sell you ten better datapads than that.”

  “I wouldn’t have use for them, I’m afraid.” Ben smiled politely as he stepped into the shade behind the vaporator. Out of the glare, he glanced at the screen. What he saw made him look again, more closely. He scanned the words. “Educational opportunities … offworld … swift placement.” He looked to her, eyes widening. “Why, this is a university application!”

  Annileen felt flushed. “Look at the date on it,” she said.

  “Oh.” Ben’s eyes narrowed. “More than twenty years ago,” he said.

  “It’s from after my father lost most of his ranch—not long after I had to go to work for Dannar. Back then I still had my sights set on working with animals.”

  “A zoological expedition authorized by the University of Alderaan,” Ben read aloud. “Travel ten worlds in a two-year exobiology program.” He looked up at her. “It sounds nice.”

  “For someone.” She took off her hat
and ran her fingers through her hair. “Twenty years ago, maybe.”

  Ben studied it further. “I don’t know about that—it looks like they’ve been offering this program for centuries.” He looked up at her. “I’m sure they’re still running expeditions—”

  She winced. No, she didn’t want to go over this again, and certainly not with him. Seeming to sense her unease, he deactivated the gadget and offered it. “Don’t you want this?”

  “I threw it away,” she said. She changed the subject. “So why are you here?”

  He straightened and cleared his throat. “I have actually come for a drink,” he said, lowering the datapad.

  Annileen’s eyebrows rose. “Really.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I’ve been having trouble getting my old vaporator into service. But I met Orrin Gault the other day, and he had the best water I’ve ever tasted. I was wondering—”

  She smiled. “By the keg, my friend, by the keg. But first,” she said, “you should try this.” She reached out and took his hand.

  Her touch startled him, but as she turned him to face the vaporator he saw what she had in mind. A key sat lodged in a lock. “Ah,” he said, watching her open the door. “This is one of Orrin’s—what did he call them, his Pretormins?”

  “Yes,” Annileen said, rotating the tap outward to become a spigot. “And it’s not Orrin’s. It’s mine. Dannar put up the first GX-9 in the oasis here, before he died. Your canteen, sir?”

  Ben reached into his cloak for his canteen and gave it to her. He watched as she filled and returned it. He steeled himself before drinking the cold water. He gasped nonetheless. “Amazing,” he said, rubbing icy lips with the back of his hand. “It’s even better than Orrin’s, if that’s possible.”

  “Thank my husband.”

  “I thought—” Ben capped his canteen. “I thought he had passed?”

  “He did.” Annileen gestured to the blinking controls inside the open panel. “Dannar adjusted this vaporator once, years ago—just fooling around. He got what you’re drinking there. We’ve never changed the settings. Orrin’s been trying to replicate them all over the valley.”