Teaching Credentials
Chapter 7
"Do you need any help?" Garen Muln asked.
The pilot of the small diplomatic ship extricated his head and shoulders from the storage compartment and looked at the Jedi in surprise.
"No, sir," he replied. "Just thought I'd make some use of the spare time. Replace some of the console lights and fix up a few loose bits I found in the computer interface panels. Housekeeping. If I can find the spare parts," he added with a grin.
"Oh. Well, I was hoping you needed assistance, to be quite frank. We might be here a while."
The pilot backed up a pace and dusted off his republic Diplomatic Corps uniform. "I see. Going to take a bit of time, is it? Sorry…I don't really know anything about it. I mean, Master Kenobi – is he building it here on the ship?"
Garen nearly laughed aloud at the nervous look on the man's face. "Why so apprehensive?"
The pilot blushed, but Garen smiled encouragingly, so he cleared his throat and plowed onward. "They say that a botched lightsaber – well, that if one doesn't get it right, it can blow up."
Garen shrugged. "True." Then, because the poor fellow looked so stricken, he added," But there's no need to worry. He's really very good. I can promise you. We grew up together, you know."
The pilot grabbed a box of circuitry and lighting components from a shelf and slammed the compartment hatch shut. "Really? That's…odd. I guess I never thought about that, either. I mean – you don't mind me talking about this? I know it's not really protocol…"
"But I'm easy to talk to?" Garen made a face. Well, every Jedi had a special talent. He liked to think that his was in the realm of piloting, but he had to admit that people everywhere had a habit of spilling their guts to him. Sometimes it came in useful, sometimes not so much. He was, like or not, what they called "approachable." Unlike his best friend, who – when he felt like it – could exude a wall of cool reserve so solid that blaster bolts would rebound off it.
"Sure. Anyway, they say you Jedi don't have family. No real ties to anyone at all."
Garen relieved hinm of the heavy box and led the way to the cockpit, where the minor adjustments needed to be made. It was all routine, boring maintenance, but it was good to have company. Obi Wan was in a trance, absorbed in building his new lightsaber, and strictly not to be disturbed. "You believe that?" he asked.
The pilot held up his hands noncommittally and started installing new interface components, discarding the used ones in a neat pile at his feet. Garen handed him the new pieces from the storage box.
"Do you have a family?"
"Sure. On Coruscant. Wife and two kids. Corellian inlaws – that's a lot of fun, I can tell you. Life's pretty good at home, but I don't see enough of it. Four more years in the Corps, and I'm going to retire early. Start a private courier business, you know? Better for the kids to have dad at home. Might be able to move back to Corellia- they could know their grandparents better. We could fish in the seas there. Water's still clean, there's plenty to catch."
"Sounds wonderful," the young Jedi replied politely, though the whole scenario was far outside his experience.
The man unbent from the task and ran a routine system reboot on the shipboard computer. He certainly knew his business. "You Jedi retire eventually? Ever settle down?"
Garen cocked his head to the side. "Not really. We're restless types, mostly."
The pilot chuckled. It's funny," he said. "You're really pretty human."
"I'm all human, actually."
"That's not what I meant. Can I ask you something personal? What's it like? Being full of the Force all the time?"
The young Knight sobered. "You already know," he said earnestly. "You're full of it right now. All the time. You just don't feel it. But everyone – every living being – moves and breathes and thinks and feels with the Force. Not just Jedi."
The pilot studied him seriously for a few moments and then blinked. "Hey," he said finally. "That's….wonderful. Really. Thank you."
"You're welcome. Now: what about some food? I'm starving."
The pilot turned out to be a cunning chef. After all, anyone who could turn stale ship rations into anything remotely appealing and edible had to be credited with extraordinary skill or ingenuity. After dinner and a game of sabaac which he lost because he had no taste for such things, Garen poked his head into the aft cabin. He had felt the subtle change in the Force during the card game, and knew that his friend was finished, after twelve hours of intense Force-guided crafting and painstaking adjustments.
Now as he peeked into the tiny room, he saw the small container of alloy metal parts and power cell circuits which they had brought from the Temple, neatly tucked in one corner. Their snow gear, which had been damp and heavy with frost, was tossed across one of the bunks, and Obi Wan was sprawled atop the other, fully dressed and sound asleep. The gleaming hilt of his new handiwork, already hanging at his belt, caught and reflected the beam of light shafting in from the passageway.
Garen entered and peered closely at the new saber, not touching it. Beneath the silver alloy casing, the hilt grip was ridged, like Qui Gon's – a tribute to the great Jedi. The outer design was more antique in design – symmetrical, elegant lines, and a rounded pommel ornamented with blunt crenellations. Very old school, understated. Typical Obi Wan. Garen had seen the crystal before his friend had set about the difficult task of building the weapon itself. The crystal was compact, full of fiery light, a shocking cold and cutting blue. Gorgeous. The formal, unassuming exterior of the saber was a hiding place for this secret fire. The blade would be pure, bright, and unusually powerful. Also, he reflected, somehow typical of its owner.
He dropped the snow gear onto the deck, and flopped down on the other bunk. Their mission here was accomplished. Garen shut his eyes. His last thought before drifting off was, Watch out Jorus C'Baoth, you old son of a gundark. Watch out.
Anakin grasped the directional controls of the speeder more firmly and took the next turn at a sharp angle, allowing the little pod to slip nearly off the edge of the maglev track as the centrifugal force of his speed threw him around the bend.
This thing was sweet all right. Fitted with a mag-unit instead of an engine, the pod had little weight. No weight meant no drag. And no drag meant…well, this just couldn't get any better. There were four racers in front of him, blocking the track ahead in a tight pack. Casually he increased the magnetic field intensity, and his tiny scoop of a vehicle shot forward. The genius of building such tiny pods – nothing more than a one-man shell sitting atop an industrial strength maglev unit, and equipped with a bare minimum of steering and speed regulators – was that running such a featherweight contraption along a track designed to move massive freight trains was like harnessing a rickety wagon to a hyperdrive ring.
Genius. He caught up with the four racers ahead, nearly slamming into their tail lights, and then used the Force to nudge himself upwards – just two meters, maybe a little less. He soared over their heads, and then skidded back down onto the track, cushioned by the magnetic resistance. The curses of those he had just jumped were impossible to hear through the bubble cockpit, but he could feel their dismay and shock through the Force.
Straight ahead was another tight curve. This time he hugged the inside, taking the loop as fast as he dared, approaching another competitor. The idea of the race, so far as he could make out, was to complete six circuits of the wide highway system. Over a hundred pods had been entered in the illegal competition, and he had heard rumor that the prize offered to the winner was a small fortune. More than he had won on Tatooine, at the Boonta Eve podrace. Core world gambling was a lucrative pastime. Many of the racers here were patronized by rich businessmen, famous celebrities, probably a few greedy politicians. The entry fee would have been staggering; this was a game for the elite, with a purse to match. Not that Anakin cared about that.
No, he was lost in a dream of speed and power. He loved racing, always had, always would. Now, as he jumped over the next group of racers in the same way he had surpassed the last set, he grinned with ferocious delight. This was going to be another easy victory for Anakin Skywalker, ex-slave, champion podracer, and future Jedi.
The pod in front of him veered sharply to the right, dropping a small object out of a concealed hatch in its undercarriage. The heavy grey box clumped onto the magnetic rail directly in Anakin's path. On reflex, he pulled his craft to the right, to avoid a collision – and jerked violently to the left instead. He reduced speed, and found himself spinning out of control.
"Poodoo!" he hissed between gritted teeth, pulling and punching at the controls. The thing on the rails must be a field disruptor – it had broken and disturbed the magnetic current, sending his little pod flying out of control. He spun across the track, edging dangerously close to the rim and a hundred meter drop onto permacrete below. Vaguely he was aware of another racer zooming into range and falling into the same trap. The new pod actually flipped end over end when it hit the disruptor's sphere of influence, and plummeted over the edge. A third pod hit the affected area at breakneck speed and spun out, careening toward Anakin on a collison course. The driver's shriek of terror tore through the Force like fire.
Anakin reached out and seized the flying pod with his mind, threw it back onto the track, away from himself. The effort made him shudder. Did I do that? Did I really do that? The Force flowed through him, a turbulent rush of wind and light. His own ship plummeted off the edge fo the rail, in slow motion. He slammed open the cokpit and jumped clear, sailing through the air and missing the edge. He fell somersaulting, remembering to stay calm as Obi Wan had drilled into him, and spotted the strut below. His fingers fumbled, found his cable launcher, activated it. He was past the strut now; it was above. He fired and waited for the jolt.
His arms screamed in protest as he jerked to a stop at the end of the dangling wire. He swayed in the breeze, gazing down at his pod as it found its way to the distant city understories and exploded into flames. He could almost hear Obi Wan's voice, ringing with exasperation. Well, that was brilliant. Suicide is not the Jedi way. I hope you're satisfied, Anakin.
"Sorry," he muttered. "Sorry." And began the climb up the cable, and onto the support beam. From there it was an easier ascent, Force leaping along the huge trestles until he had regained the edge of the track.. by now the race would be over, and the winner exulting in his triumph. Probably the poodoo head who had dropped the field disruptor in his path. Bitterly he glanced back along the length of the magrail where the disaster had begun.
Jorus C'Baoth was striding calmly down the center of the track, white hair and beard blowing in the light wind, dark cloak billowing around him.
"What happened?" he demanded.
"There was another racer – he used a field disruptor. Someone else went over the edge too. I could only save one…I lost my pod, too. I guess this was a bad idea." His shoulders slumped.
C'Baoth didn't issue the expected reprimand. "Which racer was the cheat?" he asked.
"I could identify him if I saw him, but –"
"Then let us go investigate. Such an action ought not to be left unpunished."
Anakin's jaw dropped, but he didn't dare argue with the imposing Jedi master. Silently he trotted along behind C'Baoth as they made their way to the end of the course and the winner's circle.