Kenobi: Star Wars

by John Jackson Miller

  Orrin stepped out from his office in the back. “I’m Orrin Gault,” he said, his earlier smile gone. He approached Boopa, eyeing him coolly. “Can we get you something?”

  “Hardly.” The Gossam sniffed disdainfully as his neck craned. Seeing the room Orrin had emerged from, he pointed. “Is that where you do business, Orry?”

  “Some of the time.”

  “Well, let’s go.” Twirling his cane, Boopa trotted down the aisle toward the office.

  Orrin gave a look to Annileen—and half a glance to Ben—before turning to follow. “This’ll be just a minute,” he told them. The door closed.

  Orrin, you’ve lied to me, Annileen thought. It wasn’t just a minute. It had been closer to fifteen, each one spent in alternating anxiety and annoyance.

  Anxiety over what was happening inside the office. The newcomers weren’t moisture farmers, to be sure. Orrin had dealt with shady folks before; one almost had to in running a ranch the size of his. Some supplier somewhere was always under the massive thumb of a Hutt. And she’d known Orrin to deal with merchants now and again whose property might not have been legally obtained. But that was about cutting corners. This seemed like something else again.

  “Do you think the Devaronians sent them for revenge after their partner died?” she had whispered to Ben.

  “I’ve never known hoteliers to be a vengeful lot,” he’d responded.

  She’d shooed Kallie and Leelee outside. Several of the customers had left at the sight—and occasional gaseous sound and smell—of the Gamorreans, but some of her regulars of sterner stuff remained, keeping a watchful eye from their tables. Jabe had refused to leave, taking station at the gun counter. If Ulbreck could hold out against a Tusken mob from there, Annileen thought, Jabe should be reasonably safe. She noticed that the old farmer himself had departed, perhaps deciding his adventure the day before was story enough for one week.

  And there was Ben, sorting idly through blankets and evaluating spanners. His eyes casually shifted to the Gamorreans and the closed office door. He was curious, to be sure—but not nearly as anxious as Annileen, and his presence had made her feel calmer.

  Calm enough that she could feel annoyed. If the Gamorreans had ever been to a store before, Annileen couldn’t tell. They grabbed whatever they wanted from the shelves, as if it were their own private pantry. They were making a mess, but as long as they were stuffing their faces, they weren’t breaking things—or people.

  “That’s not good,” Ben whispered as he passed her.

  “The store’s survived Tuskens. It can handle this.”

  “No, I mean the shorter one just ate a handful of metal bolts. He’ll regret that.”

  Annileen had swept her fifth aisle in the Gamorreans’ wake when the office door opened. She strained to hear Boopa’s words.

  “—not gonna work, Gault. You may be a big man here,” the Gossam said, emerging. “But this little kingdom of yours is a dust mote in the boss’s eye.”

  Orrin stepped out and put his hands on his hips. “Well, you can tell your boss—or anyone who wants to know. This oasis is for good people. We don’t want you around!” He cast a sideways glance to the dining area, where he saw the wide-eyed customers listening intently. He pointed to the exit. “Now go, and take your muscle with you!”

  Boopa beckoned to his fat companions. “Let’s go, boys. This place stinks.” He looked around, his snout crumpling. “You’ve had Tuskens here!”

  The trio filed out of the building. Orrin followed and stood in the doorway, yelling out after them. “And keep that blasted music off as you go!”

  Annileen stepped to the window, watching in amazement. Boopa was back in his ludicrous vehicle, pulling away—quietly. She looked back to Orrin. “What was that all about?”

  Orrin turned back to face the occupants of the store. “It’s nothing,” he said, straightening. “Some gangsters hoping to shake down honest folk for protection money. An old story.” He pointed a thumb out the window. “But it turns out that the Settlers’ Call has multiple uses. Once they heard how fast we’d gotten an army here to fight the Tuskens, they lost interest.”

  The statement was delivered as modestly as any she could recall coming from Orrin’s mouth—and it sent a wave of excitement through his audience. Several customers approached, eager to talk to him about joining the Call Fund. Annileen looked at Ben. The man seemed as confused by the experience as she was.

  Annileen turned to sweep the remains of the Gamorreans’ dining, but Orrin stepped free from the crowd and tugged at her sleeve. “Oh, Annie. We need to talk—about your landspeeder.”

  Annileen did a double take. It wasn’t the subject she’d expected was on his mind now, not with new business at hand.

  “There’s a delay,” Orrin said, sounding earnest. “Gloamer said so. But you don’t have to worry,” he said. Releasing her sleeve, he took her hand. “I’m going to get something sorted out. In the meantime, you can use the USV-5.”

  “Your landspeeder?” The offer startled Annileen. Orrin’s luxury vehicle was the pride of his existence. She suspected the only reason he let his son behind the controls was to make it look as if Orrin rated a driver.

  “I don’t mind,” Orrin said, bringing his other hand atop hers. He clasped them tightly and looked directly at her. “After all, you’re almost family.”

  Annileen’s eyes widened. At the mention of her landspeeder repair, she had expected Orrin’s usual excuse-with-a-smile routine. But this was different. He looked serious. A meaningful expression for others, but Orrin looked that way so infrequently she had no index to measure his sincerity against.

  “Family,” he said again, loudly enough so those around could hear.

  Annileen was aware of eyes watching from around the room. Part of her wanted to ask where this was coming from. Instead, she could only stammer. “T-thanks.”

  She withdrew her hand and stepped back. Orrin turned his head and saw Ben, lingering in the next aisle. “Oh. Kenobi,” he said, drily. “Were you ready to talk business about the Fund?”

  Ben shrugged. “I’m sorry. I may have been wasting your time—”

  Orrin looked back, coolly. “No law against it.” He looked over at the mess on the floor. “You know, Ben, stuff keeps happening when you’re here. I hate that we keep inconveniencing you.”

  “Yes, I should be about my business,” Ben said mildly. He bowed and turned away.

  Orrin walked back toward his office, the exultant customers following. Annileen goggled. Did Orrin just tell one of my customers to leave?

  Suddenly indignant, she stomped after Orrin, intending to ask exactly that. If it had been a dismissal, it was the lightest, politest she’d ever heard—but no one but she had the right to tell anyone in her store what to do. Just as she reached the back of the crowd, however, something told her to look back.

  Ben was gone.

  A breathless Kallie met her just outside the door to the livery. “Did Ben leave?” she asked, anxiously. “Rooh’s gone!”

  “Yep.” Sighing, Annileen looked back into the store. “And he never got the water keg we owe him.”

  “Bizarre. Where do you think he’s from, Mom?”

  “I don’t know. But wherever it is, they sure don’t understand the concept of shopping.”

  Meditation

  Enough.

  Just three visits—and chaos.

  I shouldn’t have gone. I’m endangering the mission.

  I won’t go back there again.

  And needless to say, I’ll be doing these chats mentally from now on. I expect you understand why.

  PART THREE

  THE BRIGHT CENTER

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  SAND PEOPLE LIVED WITH sores every day. At birth, every Tusken infant was swaddled tightly in bandage
s. The nurses worked so fast A’Yark had never seen her children’s faces. Channeled through little mouthpieces, her sons’ cries had been tinny and agonized. Babies had no way of appreciating the curse that existence represented, nor did they appreciate the shame of exposed flesh. But they quickly became acquainted with the price the coverings exacted on the body.

  Numberless in a lifetime, sores simply had to be endured. K’Sheek had been slow to learn that, years earlier; the human abductee had thought her wrappings were something that could be changed for cleanliness or comfort. She was wrong. Sand People added to their birth wrap as they grew, each new patch a testament to their defiance and survival. If a pebble got into the wrappings, it was simply layered over. The carbuncle it caused became a reminder of the past. A funnel plant simply grew new skin over its wounds. A Tusken could do the same.

  A’Yark understood that defeat was just another sore Sand People lived with. Defeats had to be felt, each and every one—and remembered. And in the days since the massacre at the gorge, A’Yark had felt it every time she opened her eye. The survivors in The Pillars were pathetic, clinging to life like lichen. The first few days had been the worst, with the remaining handful of warriors making pitiful forays to find hubba gourds. Proud raids, indeed!

  The arguments followed. Those posed less danger to A’Yark, now, since most of her rivals were dead. But hapless elders walking in circles decrying their fates irritated her greatly.

  And finally, the sacred well in The Pillars, usually reliable, was dry most days now. The clan’s need hadn’t been reduced much by the massacre; a herd of ownerless banthas remained, and it made no sense to butcher them, whatever tradition said. The worriers had blamed A’Yark and the failed raid for the water problems, too, despite the fact that word was filtering in of similar issues for other clans, elsewhere. If Tatooine had grown angry with its tenants, all Sand People were suffering, not just one tribe.

  A’Yark had no time for recriminations. For while keeping the group from dissolving had taken most of her time, she had still found spare hours for the important thing: keeping watch on Ben.

  The human’s lair was close: farther to the west, along the northern face of the Jundland. A’Yark had found it easily. The winds had been light, and while Ben had shown guile in his attempts to hide his footsteps, no one could track like a Tusken.

  Ben had not returned to the oasis in many days. A’Yark had wondered about that. Didn’t he protect the human woman Annileen? The compound was her home. Had she moved to his? A’Yark didn’t know—but wasn’t about to venture to the oasis to find out. That would be madness now.

  One day, however, A’Yark had spotted Ben riding east. There were cities that way, but he wasn’t taking the fastest route. Rather, he kept to the ridgeline, avoiding contact with settlements. Unable to range far without leaving her defenseless clan behind, A’Yark had lost him.

  So instead, she sat with her bantha and waited. And watched.

  Ben returned the next day to his home. His only cargo was the camping gear he’d taken with him. Whatever his trip east had been, it wasn’t a supply run.

  What drove a human? A’Yark wished she had spent more time listening to Sharad Hett. He had been unwilling to talk about his earlier life with the outsiders; that, after all, was what had driven him to join the Tuskens. She hadn’t even asked K’Sheek many questions. The Sand People had no interest in understanding their enemies. It was enough to know that they bled and died when attacked.

  But now, with the might of her band broken, A’Yark needed to understand. This Ben wanted something; all beings did. It governed his habits and movements. Was the thing he wanted to the east?

  A’Yark would have to consider that another time. The gourd gatherers were late in returning. They can’t even do that right. A’Yark finished sharpening the point of her gaderffii and walked down from The Pillars onto the desert floor.

  In the distant northeast, she saw a peculiar sight. One bantha after another appeared on the horizon. The eldest member of the foraging group rode the lead beast. The fourth and final bantha had a cable around its neck, and was dragging something like a landspeeder. Except it was three times as long as any A’Yark had ever seen.

  “What now?” Gaderffii raised in indignation, A’Yark stomped across the sand, trying to get the attention of the makeshift caravan. The hovercraft had a large flatbed surface in back, with something huge lying upon it.

  A vaporator tower.

  A’Yark skidded to a halt. A young Tusken was operating the vehicle, although certainly not as it was supposed to be operated. The thing lurched forward in fits and starts, bumping against the rear legs of the irritated bantha in front of it. The machine was sparking, with fumes rising from beneath its hood; this would likely be its last trip, anywhere.

  The sight of A’Yark caused the bantha riders to stop. That, in turn, resulted in the landspeeder again slamming into the rear bantha. The animal screamed and kicked, its massive foot causing the hovering vehicle to bob and weave on the air.

  A’Yark didn’t know which warrior to smack first. She chose the one in the machine.

  “A settler abandoned it,” the would-be driver said.

  “And you did not kill him?”

  The war leader’s tone was enough; the young warrior bowed his head in shame. “They fled. We thought the prize was more important.”

  “The prize!” A’Yark walked along the length of the flatbed. “What are we to do with this?” She smacked the vaporator with her gaderffii, producing a loud clang. “Are you Jawas now? Will you peddle trash for crumbs?”

  “It makes water,” the warrior sitting atop the lead bantha said. “Water! We need—”

  “I know what it does!” A’Yark leered at the metal abomination, astonished that any Tusken didn’t know the offense it represented to the natural order. “Settlers defile the land with vaporators. We destroy them. We do not—”

  A’Yark paused. “Wait,” she said, considering. She faced the driver. “You took this thing from the Smiling One’s lands?”

  “The human war leader from the oasis—and the gorge?” The driver shrank in his seat. The memory of the massacre was still fresh. “No. You told us to stay away from his lands. This was in a different place.”

  Well, at least they listened to one thing, A’Yark thought. Her reconnaissance had given her a sense of what territory the Smiling One considered his. Taking something belonging to him might bring his forces out on another hunt. A’Yark never shrank from battle, but the others would not be ready for that meeting. It was best avoided.

  Sounds came from within the rock formation. A’Yark turned to see children peeking down, curious at the new arrivals. Others would see the giant device, too, if they left it around near the entrance to the rift. A’Yark pointed her gaderffii and grunted a command. “The thing will fit in the cave beneath the overhang. Carry it up there—and try not to break it.”

  The young warriors looked at one another, puzzled at the reversal. A’Yark’s next yell put them into motion.

  A’Yark watched it go past and calculated. She wasn’t sure what they would do with it, if anything. But circumstances were dire, and even an object that had no meaning to the Tuskens might become important in the clash against the settlers. It only took a pebble to cause a sore.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “GIVE ME THE BAD news,” Orrin said, squinting upward from beneath his farmer’s hat.

  Veeka shimmied down the scaffold. “Eighty-seven milliliters.”

  “That’s it?” Orrin was stunned. A human on Tatooine could sweat more in five minutes. “The settings have got to be wrong.”

  The young woman mopped her brow angrily and glared at her father. “You want to go up and see?”

  Orrin didn’t. It had been like this everywhere in the eastern range. The Gault sweetwater formula
had been producing fine at the test towers just a month earlier. Now it was programmed into all the Pretormins during what normally was the most productive time of the year.

  And the sky seemed to have given up on them.

  “Diagnostic?”

  “Not gonna say anything different today than it did yesterday,” Veeka said. She wiped her hands on her work pants. “Dad, we’ve got to do something else.”

  What? Orrin didn’t know. It wasn’t normal, this performance. It went against everything he knew about the art and the science. Nothing in the atmosphere had changed; everything was well within expected parameters. Yet each of his ten-thousand-credit machines was turning out pedestrian water, half a glass at a time.

  Some farmers simply lost the knack. He couldn’t believe that was the answer. Everything happened for a reason. But it was almost as if the Tuskens’ damaging of Old Number One a couple of weeks earlier had killed the recipe everywhere. There was no connection, of course; the machines were discrete entities, each adjusted by hand. Yet the vaporators acted as if the magic was gone.

  Veeka scaled the tower again, preparing to close the maintenance doors, set high above the reach of Sand People or wildlife. Clinging to the side, she called out, “Someone’s coming.”

  Wyle Ulbreck’s old repulsortruck puttered across the horizon from the direction of the oasis. Orrin recognized it instantly—as did his son, working nearby. Mullen saw his father straightening his shirt. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna try again!”

  “A farmer lives on hope,” Orrin said, waving his hat at the traveler.

  Ulbreck’s vehicle slowed to a stop near the crew. The old man squinted out the window. “Oh,” he said, recognizing Orrin. “It’s you.”

  Orrin smiled. Who else would it be on my own land, you imbecile?

  “You’re leaving early, Wyle.” Orrin stepped to the door. “Finally tell everyone how you saved the Claim from the raging horde?”