Star Wars: Rogue Planet (28 page)

As they completed their circuit, two wide viewing ports dilated, like slit eyes set in the forward lobe. A technician peered at them through one port and smiled at the new owners, lifting a thumb in approval.

“Think where we can go in this!” Anakin said.

“If the Temple lets us go anywhere,” Obi-Wan said.

“They will. They’ll want us to let her out and see what she does. I
know
they will.”

Obi-Wan was less sure, but now was not the time. He had finished his inspection—the wondering part, at any rate—and stood directly before the Sekotan ship with arms folded. He tuned all his senses and let the Force resume its ascendancy.

“Anakin,” he said quietly.

His Padawan turned to face him, expression suddenly serious. “I know,” he said. “I feel it.”

“The middle of the wave,” Obi-Wan said. “Your trial, I believe.”

The color drained from the Padawan’s face. “Couldn’t it wait … until we fly the ship?”

Obi-Wan did not answer. Anakin looked down at his hands, folding into fists, and relaxed them. “All right,” he said. “It is the way, and I accept it.”

“Do you, Padawan?” Obi-Wan asked gently.

“It is what we’ve prepared for.”

“Do you feel that as truth or … say it just to placate me?”

“I never lie,” Anakin said, looking him straight in the eye, color returning to his face.

“You have never lied to others. But even worse is to lie to oneself.”

“But the ship … we’re responsible for her! She’s alive, Obi-Wan. She will die without us!”

A second transport passed low overhead and landed on a pillar nearby. As Fitch fussed about the new ship and conferred with his technicians, Obi-Wan saw Sheekla and Shappa Farrs, Gann, and Jabitha marching along a bridge to the platform.

Jabitha stood by Anakin and smiled at him, patting his shoulder proudly. “She’s beautiful!”

Anakin tilted his head to one side, nodding, then glanced anxiously at Gann.

“We’ve had difficulties,” Gann said, his expression dark and tired. “A client has caused substantial damage at Middle Distance. He injured some of our people, and he escaped. But that’s not the worst—there’s an invasion squadron within our system. Four small craft are approaching Zonama. We fear they are fighters. Someone has followed you here. Or—you led them here deliberately.”

Sheekla and Shappa had stayed a few paces back until now. Sheekla stepped forward. “We have sent a message to the Magister,” she said. “The ship cannot be delivered until we hear his response.”

“We had nothing to do with bringing ships here,” Obi-Wan said. “But if there is a hostile force nearby … How will you defend yourself? Perhaps we can help.”

“We trust no one, not even Jedi,” Sheekla Farrs said, her expression stony. “We’ve learned this the hard way.”

“We have to stay with the ship!” Anakin cried out.

“You will be near the ship,” Gann said. “You will remain here, in fact. But the ship will stay on Zonama. We have no clear picture of the threat. It may be small—petty traders, a troupe of pirates.”

“I suspect they are not pirates,” Obi-Wan said. Anakin agreed.

“Then why so few?” Gann asked, turning to Obi-Wan. “It doesn’t make sense. A Trade Federation invasion force would encircle us with a fleet. They may have made a mistake, or there may be a malfunction.”

Obi-Wan shook his head. “We can only help you if you tell us certain things.”

Jabitha stood back, eyes wide, frightened by the talk. Shappa pushed between Gann and Sheekla Farrs. “I believe we can trust these Jedi,” he said. “Perhaps it is time to tell the story of Vergere—”

Obi-Wan thought of the brief message carried by the seeds. That Vergere had had to leave Zonama Sekot, to follow an even greater mystery.

“No!” Gann cried. “We must defer to the Magister!”

“No one has seen the Magister for months!” Shappa replied. “He issues his orders from the mountain and defers to us more often than not. Not even his daughter has seen him.”

“The Magister is in command! He always has been, and he always will be!”

The two Ferroans seemed about to come to blows. Fitch was embarrassed by their loss of dignity.

“What happened to Vergere?” Obi-Wan asked, thrusting an arm between the two men.

“No one knows,” Sheekla Farrs said, her voice high and clear over the grumbling breaking out among the technicians on the platform. “We were afraid you would think we had murdered her.”

“We have lived in fear since the Far Outsiders!” Shappa said. “They were the first to challenge our way of life.”

“Who are the Far Outsiders?” Obi-Wan asked.

“You do not know?” Sheekla seemed at a loss that Jedi would be so ill-informed. “The female Jedi—” She caught herself and flung her hand over her mouth.

Gann was beside himself. “The Magister must decide!” he insisted.

“Then take us to him,” Obi-Wan said, irritated by the confusion. He could sense they had little time to waste. “Let him tell us personally.”

A moment of silence among the Ferroans.

“Do we trust the Jedi?” Shappa asked them. “If the Trade Federation is here—”

“Then they are operating illegally, and they might as well be pirates,” Obi-Wan said. “The Trade Federation is handing over all its weapons and ships to the senate. The rule of central law is being restored in the Republic.”

“That is what we have heard from our factors,” Sheekla Farrs said. “But we considered it of no consequence, since Zonama is so far from all that.”

“The Magister must be consulted,” Gann persisted, but his voice was weakening. He wrung his hands, close to despair. “It has
always
been our law.”

Anakin stood by the Sekotan ship, his hand brushing the surface. His eyes were half-closed, and he seemed lost in a dream, perhaps of flying. Obi-Wan called his name, but he did not immediately respond.

“Anakin!” Obi-Wan called again, more forcefully.

The boy jerked and came to attention. “We’re in danger,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “We should leave here.”

Obi-Wan needed no more warning, but he stopped as more Ferroans rushed along the bridge, calling for Gann. “There is another!” they cried in unison.

“Another what?” Gann asked.

“A second fleet within the system, even larger than the first!”

“Now, Obi-Wan!” Anakin cried.

Obi-Wan looked up and saw descending flashes of light in the sky—two of them. They were swooping
down out of orbit, still trailing hot plasma tails. With his keen vision he could see their glowing outlines. He recognized them instantly.

He had faced them before, on Naboo, with Qui-Gon. The most capable and deadly of all the Trade Federation droids.

“Starfighters!” he shouted, and tugged Anakin down beside him, just in time to avoid four slashes of laser fire. He pulled his lightsaber—Qui-Gon’s lightsaber—from his belt, and the glowing green blade hummed to full length. Smoke from the melted rock rose on either side, cutting off their view. Obi-Wan shifted into a state of full-sensory alertness. His ears tracked the engine whine and sonic booms of the maneuvering starfighters. They were turning for another attack. He faced in that direction to deflect their fire with his blade.

“Stay down,” Obi-Wan told Anakin, seeing the boy climb to his knees.

“The ship—”

“Forget the ship,” Obi-Wan said. “We need to find shelter.”

“We can escape in the ship!” Anakin insisted. “She’s ready to go!”

Obi-Wan took hold of his shoulder and pushed him low to the smooth rock surface. Thus distracted, he could not raise the lightsaber in time to provide even a partial deflection for the next laser salvo. The blast knocked him several meters and tumbled him over and over. Flecks of broken and molten rock flew through the air, burning his clothes, drilling into his skin. Instinctively, he held up one arm to shield his face and the other to protect Anakin.

But the boy was out of reach. Obi-Wan could not get up. Something had slammed into his solar plexus—a
sharp piece of rock. He found blood there and a hole in his tunic.

Then he heard footsteps. People shouting, crying out in pain.

Anakin made a sound through the smoke, a cough and then a sharp grunt, as if he had been struck. Obi-Wan tried to roll over, tried to reach out for his Padawan, but he could not regain control of his body, even with the most extraordinary concentration of effort.

A figure loomed out of the murk and stood over Obi-Wan: tall, dressed in dark blue, many-jointed, with iridescent golden skin. A booted foot came down on his arm and pinned it.

“I could kill you now, Jedi. Your death will restore my honor.”

Small black eyes focused on Obi-Wan. He grasped the hilt of his lightsaber and extended the blade. The foot stomped his arm again, nearly breaking it, and kicked the lightsaber out of his hand, out of reach. The blade skittered and sizzled across the rock.

More laser salvos slashed through the air behind the Blood Carver, blowing apart the suspension bridge and setting the buildings on an adjacent pillar ablaze. The glow of destruction made his shining skin dance like a flame, part of the destruction.

“Yes, Jedi, I live,” the Blood Carver snarled. “I
still live
.”

A
nakin had done his best to elude the nightmare that rushed forward out of the smoke, but the laser blasts had stunned him as well as Obi-Wan. He could only crawl backward on his elbows and grimace up at the shadow, trying to make his body hurry or time slow. Time slowed, all right, but he did not speed up.

The shadow disappeared in a fresh billow of smoke, reemerged, became clear.

“Slave boy!”

It was the same Blood Carver Anakin had encountered in the garbage pit. He carried a long shaping lance with a wicked blade on the end and moved quick as lightning. He swung the lance down so quickly Anakin hardly had time to begin his roll to one side. The flat of the blade struck the boy across the back of his skull and neck. His head exploded with sparking pain.

The blow stunned him, but he did not lose consciousness. He felt himself lifted by one ankle, like an amphibian delicacy on Tatooine, and swung through the smoke, dripping blood from his nose. As his assailant
whirled him about, he saw the Sekotan ship still in her tendril sling, undamaged.

The Blood Carver casually plucked out and threw aside an engineer who poked up from the dilated opening in the hull, then hoisted Anakin over the ship’s side lobe and dropped him in. Then he crawled after.

Anakin found he could move a little, but pretended to be inert.
Where’s Obi-Wan? Is he still alive? How could this all happen so fast?

But he knew. This was the trial, the test no Jedi Temple could provide, no Jedi Master could oversee.

The Force is never a nursemaid
.

Anakin was on his own. The first thing he did, while the Blood Carver poked around the interior, looking for any other engineers, was to still all his resentment, all his feelings of failure and inferiority, and most important, his self-anger at having distracted Obi-Wan with his own foolish regard for the ship.

That regard was not so foolish. The ship is part of your power—it is essential in the here and now. It is the beginning of your trial—and it will end with the trial of Zonama Sekot. Your master cannot help you now
.

He thought for a moment this might be the suspended voice of Obi-Wan, or even Qui-Gon Jinn, but it was not. If the voice had any quality whatsoever, it was his own—older, more mature.
The Jedi I will become. All I have trained to be
.

The Blood Carver growled and Anakin heard a small shriek. Jabitha was pushed forward from the back of the cabin, where she had hidden behind a thick cross brace.

She glanced at Anakin, eyes wild with fear like a small, trapped animal. The Blood Carver yanked her arm and tossed her lightly into an alcove beside the rear acceleration couches.

“Be still! He’s dangerous,” Anakin warned her.

Jabitha dropped her jaw as if to speak, but the Blood Carver slapped her hard across the face, then swiveled gracefully, grabbed Anakin by the shoulders, and yanked him into the pilot’s seat. The seat automatically adjusted to Anakin’s body, and he felt a greeting from the ship—a tremulous recognition of his presence.

The seed-partners had united. They spoke now as one, reporting the ship’s condition, her readiness—and their concern. The ship knew something was wrong, but Anakin was still too groggy, his movements too uncoordinated, for him to hazard any action.

Jabitha crawled into a rear passenger seat, whimpering. Her face was bloody.

Anakin’s blood seemed to chill. He felt her pain.

The Blood Carver took the seat that had been made for Obi-Wan. He squirmed uncomfortably, then reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small, glassy green bulb.

Anakin watched through mostly closed eyes, slumped in the couch, as the long, triple-jointed arm swung out and slender, strong, golden fingers crushed the bulb under his nose.

Again, Anakin’s head seemed to explode—but this time with outraged life. He flung himself away from the bulb’s acrid stench and slammed his shoulder into an instrument panel. He shook all over and stared hard at his kidnapper.