Into the Void: Star Wars (Dawn of the Jedi) (52 page)

And far from satisfied with what he had discovered so far about the death of his former
apprentice.

Word had reached Yavin 4 and the new Jedi Order in the form of a complaint from the
Congress of Caliphs that ruled Makem Te, of a blue-skinned Jedi who had killed a Caliph’s
nephew. Apologies were made through the New Republic’s diplomatic channels, but Mander
was pulled from his regular duties in the Archives and dispatched to find out what
had really happened.

His assignment made perfect sense to Mander. He had taught Toro in the ways of the
Force, and had monitored the young Jedi’s own reports back to the Order. His own skill
set dovetailed nicely with Toro’s assigned mission. Yet the older Jedi was still reluctant
to leave behind the Archives, to leave Yavin 4 after years of diligent and productive
research.

What Mander found on this planet surprised him. Not that Toro had gotten into a fight—the
young man had been headstrong and easily riled even when he had been his apprentice,
and the Swokes Swokes were by all reports a prickly species to deal with. But the
idea that Toro had gotten into an argument so easily, or that he
had made such a fatal mistake in combat, troubled Mander deeply as he made the long
trip from Yavin to Makem Te. As he stepped off the shuttle and breathed the dusty
air of this world, the questions swirled within him. What had gone wrong? Had it been
his training that had been at fault? Had Mander prepared him insufficiently? Or were
there other factors at work?

As a student, Toro had been a superb warrior—limber and smooth, a blue-fleshed blur
in combat. More important, he bonded with his lightsaber, treating the blade as an
extension of his self. Even in training, Mander was impressed with the young Pantoran’s
skill and confidence.

Mander himself had none of that easiness in combat. The Force was strong in the older
Jedi, but it was directed elsewhere. He could feel the energy moving through him,
but his own lightsaber often felt like an alien thing, a lump in his hand. He had
come to the Force late in life, as did many in the later years of the Empire, and
it showed.

Toro was better with a lightsaber, and Mander was sure that he would have become a
fine Jedi Knight. A better Jedi Knight than he. But now Toro was dead and Mander was
not sure why.

Mander’s first stop was to claim the body and examine it, a rented medical droid at
his side burbling commentary. The dried flecks of blood on his apprentice’s lips and
the broken bones along one side of his body spoke of a sudden, violent end. But there
was also a darkening of the young man’s veins and arteries—violet against the sea-blue
of his flesh—that had not be present in life, and pointed to an external agent at
work.

Further, purple crystals budded at the corners of Toro’s eyes. Mander was not sure
if this was natural to the Pantorans in death, but he assumed it was not, and took
a sample of the material. It had a pungent aroma, more
cloying than the acrid dust of Makem Te’s air. There were similar crystals in the
dead Jedi’s darkened veins, now stilled of pulsing life. Something had been injected
or ingested, he decided.

Toro was under the influence of something else before the fight, Mander thought, and
possibly the two events were tied. The older Jedi double-checked his evaluation before
consigning Toro’s body to the funeral pyre. The Swokes Swokes, regardless of their
official indignation, were extremely helpful with funeral arrangements. It was a point
of pride for them.

Mander Zuma visited the scene of Toro’s death, the restaurant. It had been closed
for a period of mourning for the Caliph’s nephew, but already the smashed furniture
had been stacked to one side for recycling and a new sheet of plate glass installed,
replacing the one shattered by Toro’s exit. The wait staff was initially unhelpful,
but Mander’s modest knowledge of Swoken, the native language—combined with a bit of
the Force in the voice—helped smooth out the questions. By the end of the interview
the staff was positively chatty about the incident.

Yes, the blue-skinned Jedi had been there. He was waiting for someone, he had said.
He had been drinking. A lot. Local stuff, but a Rodian came in with another bottle.
A gift. The Jedi had insulted the staff. Insulted the other diners. He had gotten
into an argument with Choka Chok, the Caliph’s nephew. The Jedi pulled his lightsaber
and killed Choka Chok. Killed five more regulars as well, and had left a dozen regenerating.
Screaming in that weird, liquid-sounding, offworlder Basic. Not a proper language
at all. Foaming at the mouth. Then he had smashed his way through the window. The
wait staff thought he was trying to escape, but had forgotten he was forty floors
up. The joke was on him. No, no one had found the Jedi’s energy blade, or at
least reported that they had found it. Yes, yes, they had the bottle the Rodian brought
somewhere around. They were still cleaning up the mess.

The Swokes Swokes provided the bottle and Mander calibrated his medical datapad. A
few simple tests on the dregs in the bottle confirmed his hunch—there was something
unusual in the scentwine. Potent, unknown, and similar in composition to the crystalline
tears at the corners of the corpse’s eyes. Distilled out, it had the same cloying
smell. The wine’s bouquet covered the smell.

Poison, then. The Rodian brought the wine. Was the poison what clouded his judgment
at the end?

The possibility left Mander concerned. Why was Toro unwary enough to drink the wine
in the first place? A Jedi in the field had to be aware of his surroundings and potential
attacks. Had he trusted the Rodian, or whoever the Rodian represented? And what, if
anything, did this have to do with his assigned task, to acquire the navigation coordinates
for the Indrexu Spiral? Was someone trying to stop the New Republic from gaining those
codes? Or had Toro stumbled onto something else?

Indeed, scanning the last communications from Toro to the new Jedi Order had been
troubling as well. They had been brief, even terse. He had made initial contacts.
He had begun negotiations. He was pleased with the progress. Nothing to indicate that
there was a problem. Even so, there was a brusqueness in his communiqués that now
gave Mander pause. Details were missing.

Now the trail led to this warehouse, made of ancient wood, reinforced with the cold
iron that was so much a part of Swokes Swokes architecture. There were few Rodians
on Makem Te, and it was relatively easy to track Toro’s deadly wine steward back here.
A Rodian family
cartel ran a small trade out of these warehouses, trafficking in ornate funeral plaques
and reliquaries and other offworld items.

The darkness of the alley cloaked him more effectively than any mind trick, but the
lock was old and stubborn, and at last Mander used the Force to snap the hasp. So
much for getting in and getting out without leaving any trace, he thought. Carefully,
he slid the door open, but was met only with a hollow echo of the sliding metal. He
slipped inside, leaving enough of a gap that he could leave quickly if things went
bad.

Mander moved quietly at first, but, it was quickly clear that no one seemed to be
present. Moonlight from the frosted skylights overhead shone on a bare floor. Mander
reached into a vest pocket and pulled out a set of magnaspecs—two pinkish lenses set
in hexagonal frames. He unfolded the lenses and placed them on the bridge of his nose;
magnets in the frame held them there, pinching his flesh slightly. When he tapped
the side of the lenses they issued a soft, pale red glow, heightening the available
light in the dim warehouse.

Large wooden racks stood in neat ordered rows from floor to ceiling along the length
of the structure. Empty cargo containers were lined along one wall, and a trio of
manual loadlifters—great walker engines with huge spatulate hands—along the other.
These Rodians were too poor, or too cheap, for droid-operated versions. The shelves
were heavily laden with blank epitaph plates and bolts of funeral shrouds, all covered
in a thin coating of dust. Scraps and more dust were heaped in the corners as well.
Whatever business was being done out of this warehouse had precious little to do with
mortuary arrangements.

In the center of the room was a pile of broken crates, damaged and abandoned in a
rush to clear out. Clear spots showed where other crates once stood, and the
dust was disturbed by the broad feet of the loadlifters. Somewhere far off, in some
connecting warehouse, there was a soft thunder of people moving crates, but this place
was devoid of workers.

Mander frowned. Whoever poisoned Toro expected someone to come after them, and had
probably decided to put a few planets between them and their pursuers. No doubt the
warehouse was under an assumed name and behind three shell companies. Tracking them
down would not be easy.

Mander poked through the trash with his toe—funeral robes and tapestries, metal plates
with Swokes Swokes memorials—about three or four containers’ worth that had been breached
and abandoned. And there, glittering in the moonlight, something dark and crystalline.

The Jedi knelt down next to the pile and examined the crystals. They were purplish,
dark almost to the point of being black. He sniffed it, and it gave off a rich, pungent
aroma. Spice, but unlike any he had seen before. He pulled out a plasticlear envelope
and scooped a handful of crystals into it.

That was when he knew he was not alone. It could have been a shadow against the moonlight
or a footstep landing too heavily, but at once he knew that someone else was in the
warehouse with him. He rose slowly from his examination, trying to move naturally,
his hand fumbling with the strap of the lightsaber. Still, he engaged it and brought
the ignited blade up, glowing green, before the first blaster bolt erupted.

Mander parried the energy discharge, trying to send it back to his attacker but succeeding
only in deflecting it among the racks of epitaph markers. Inwardly he cursed at his
lack of skill. Another shot unleashed, again from near the warehouse’s entrance, and
again Mander turned the energy pulse aside, but only just, and it scorched the wall
behind him. Mander reminded himself that he was
in a wooden building containing flammable funeral shrouds. Too many such stray shots
would be a bad thing.

“I can do this all day,” he lied to the darkness. “Why don’t you come out and we can
talk?”

There was a shadow against the doorway, and for a moment Mander was sure that his
assailant would try to flee. Instead, a lone figure walked into a rectangular square
of moonlight. Smoke swirled from the barrel of her DL-22 heavy blaster. She was almost
Mander’s height, and even in the pale radiance Mander could see that her flesh was
a rich blue, marked with yellow swirls on each cheek. Long hair—a deeper blue in shade,
almost to the color of night—was worn short in the front, woven in a thick braid down
the back. A Pantoran, then, like Toro. Her lips were a thin, grim line and her eyes
flashed with anger.

“Why are you shooting at me?” said Mander calmly, as if being shot at in a warehouse
were a common occurrence for him.

“I’m here for justice,” she said, and the barrel came up. Despite himself, Mander
brought up his lightsaber in defense, but she did not fire.

“Justice is good,” said Mander, trying to keep his voice casual. “I’m seeking justice
as well. Perhaps you’d like to help me find some.” He paused and added, “You know,
I once trained a Pantoran in the ways of the Force.”

This time she did shoot, and Mander almost toppled back onto the pile of trash bringing
his blade up. Almost too late, and as it was he deflected the bolt upward instead
of back. There was the distant crash of a shattered skylight.

“You’re the one responsible for Toro’s death, then,” said the Pantoran, her words
as sharp as a vibroblade’s edge.

“Relative?” asked Mander, willing himself to be ready for another shot. It did not
come.

“Sister.”

Mander forced himself to relax, or at least give the impression of relaxing. He deactivated
his lightsaber, even though he wasn’t sure he could reignite it fast enough should
she choose to fire. “You’re Reen Irana, then,” he said. “Toro spoke to me of you.”

The blaster jerked toward him for a moment, but the Pantoran did not fire. Mander
added quickly, “I was not here when Toro died. I was back at the academy on Yavin
Four. I came here when we heard the news. To find out what happened. And to finish
Toro’s assignment.”

The blaster wavered, just a bit, but at last she pointed it away from the Jedi. Even
in the moonlight, he could see a wetness glistening at the corner of her eyes. “It’s
your fault,” she managed at last, her voice throaty with grief. Mander waited, giving
her time to gather her thoughts. When she spoke again, the iron had returned to her
words. “Toro was a dreamer, and you took him to become a Jedi and now he’s dead. You’re
responsible.”

Mander held his palms out and said simply, “Yes.”

Reen was startled at the admission. She had apparently expected the Jedi to say many
things, but not this.

Mander looked hard at the young Pantoran—he could see the resemblance to Toro in her
face. He continued, “Yes I am responsible. Every man’s journey is his own, but I did
train your brother, and he was here on Makem Te on Jedi business. So yes, we … I … put
him in harm’s way. And … I failed to prepare him for what he faced here. That is why
I am here. I want to find out who poisoned your brother, to see justice brought against
them.”

For the first time, the Pantoran seemed confused. “Poison?” she managed.

“I believe so,” said Mander. “I found something strange in his blood. And now there
is this.” He held up the clear envelope with the crystals. “I found it here in the
warehouse.”

The Pantoran kept her blaster aimed at the Jedi, but reached out with the other hand.
Mander held the envelope out to her, and she took it, taking a few steps back immediately
in case this was a trick.