Let us suppose that the great empire of China, with all its myriads of inhabitants, was suddenly swallowed up by an earthquake, and let us consider how a man of humanity in Europe, who had no sort of connexion with that part of the world, would be affected upon receiving intelligence of this dreadful calamity. He would, I imagine, first of all, express very strongly his sorrow for the misfortune of that unhappy people, he would make many melancholy reflections upon the precariousness of human life, and the vanity of all the labours of man, which could thus be annihilated in a moment...And when all this fine philosophy was over, when all these humane sentiments had been once fairly expressed, he would pursue his business or his pleasure, take his repose or his diversion, with the same ease and tranquillity, as if no such accident had happened. The most frivolous disaster which could befal himself would occasion a more real disturbance. If he was to lose his little finger to-morrow, he would not sleep to-night; but, provided he never saw them, he will snore with the most profound security over the ruin of a hundred millions of his brethren, and the destruction of that immense multitude seems plainly an object less interesting to him, than this paltry misfortune of his own.
Adam Smith, from The Theory of Moral Sentiments.
1.
There was a bleakness to every cantina he had ever set foot in that he couldn't quite put into words. He surveyed the scene around him now: boisterous music, a cheerful if repetitive tune, rings of smoke slowly drifting through the air, loud and raucous laughter which made conversation almost impossible. By all accounts, everything was as it should be; still, he could not help feeling there was a hint of artifice about it all, something that made him wonder whether the people here were truly having a good time or if they were pretending, to fool others or perhaps themselves.
Even so, better to spend the evening here than back at his quarters, alone.
Corporal Van Vodhen pushed the gloomy thoughts out of his mind and took an empty seat at the bar, joining the line of scrunchy-faced aliens drowning their troubles in juma juice. The aphid beside him - was that what they call a Rodian? - seemed to be twitching nervously. Van Vodhen angled himself so that his back was to his neighbor and motioned impatiently to the bartender.
He took a quick look around, his eyes lingering on the dance floor, running quickly over the usual band of Bith and settling on the group of Twilek females moving their bodies gracefully to the music. Unfortunately he was not much of a dancer himself. He had thought of learning in his youth, perhaps taking a class in his spare time, but somehow had never gotten around to it, and now, when his body had grown round and clumsy and his bones sluggish, there seemed to be little point in taking it up.
His drink arrived and, turning his gaze to the endless row of bottles over the bar, he took a few sips and felt the pleasant sensation of warmth spreading through his body. He sat still for a few minutes, sipping slowly and savoring the feeling, until he felt himself starting to get restless.
He took the mail out of the pockets of his overalls and arranged it before him. The same crud as always: requisition orders; notifications of mandatory training; notices that his attendance was required at upcoming meetings; surveys that needed to be filled out; reminders of missed mandatory training; it went on and on, an endless list of bureaucratic obligations that ate up most of his time each day. He crumpled a few of them and threw them in the plasteel cylinder beside the bar. He really should go through these earlier in the day, when he felt calmer, but the mail room was on the way to the exit and he always seemed to stop by on his way out.
A burst of loud laughter across the room drew his attention. He thought he saw a familiar figure and squinting he made out the face of special agent Daven, mouthing something to a circle of admirers gathered around him. Van Vodhen felt a surge of unpleasant surprise in his chest. He had come here, instead of the cantina across from the base, just so he would not run into any of his colleagues. In any case, wasn't Daven sent on an undercover assignment weeks ago? He must have returned recently, for there he was, surrounded by his usual circle of groupies, likely regaling them with stories from his mission.
No one respected a demolitions expert, he thought glumly. Oh he was treated well, everyone agreed he was very good at what he did. At the last status meeting, he challenged anyone in the room to name a war where a soldier or even a team of soldiers made the difference between defeat and victory, and while they all fumbled, he had named five conflicts where the quality of explosives made all the difference. His was the really important work.
He took a gulp of his drink and went back to sorting his mail, ignoring the gasps just emitted by several people listening to Daven. He wouldn't be surprised if the man was giving out military secrets right at this moment, all as a ploy for attention.
There was a note from payroll explaining the new system for entering hours each day. Site 23 would be undergoing repair for the next two months. Next week his division would have an "ugly sweater day." Was Daven ever asked to enter his hours? He obviously did not when he was undercover, fine, but even when he was back on the base, it was somehow incongruous to imagine him filling out status forms. His superiors probably invented some exception for him, and Van Vodhen's mind ran over over the possible reasons that would satisfy the usual objections from the accounting division, who were known for being sticklers in such matters.
He was so absorbed in this that he almost threw it in the trash, the light matte grey envelope sealed with the Plessian coat of arms, tucked inconspicuously among the rest of his mail.
He took a furtive look around as soon as he caught sight of it. Strictly speaking, he should not open the envelope outside the base. But hardly anyone seemed to be nearby, twitchy Rodian excepted, and after a moment's hesitation he reached for the seal. The general's scrawl was instantly recognizable - he had seen those barely legible and elongated letters whenever someone passed around one of these envelopes, usually gloating about receiving orders directly from the commander - and he carefully read and reread the single line of the letter.
"Unsightly Hare - 38:45 - your contact will remark on the size of your pipe - destroy after reading."
A private assignment, coming straight from the general! Unexpected but not unwelcome. His talents would finally be put to good use. He would not be the kind of fool who spilled his secrets to every floozy - he glanced bitterly across the room - no, he would handle this task with the dignity it required. He glanced at his watch: it was only 34:15. The Unsightly Hare was the name of a cantina across town and was a half-hour away at most. He would need to stop somewhere and get a pipe, preferably a large one.
He felt himself almost jittery with excitement.
2.
"Danger," master Nimbo said darkly. "We face grave danger ahead."
The padawans, gathered in a circle round their master, looked at each other uncertainly. This was to have been their training time. Most days they were set them to spar against each other while the master strolled about their training hall, offering pointers to some and praise to others. But today he merely sat on the placemat with eyes closed, paying them no heed as they filed into the hall one-by-one.
"I feel it too master," Wrasho said.
Krava and Noval shared a glance and Krava leaned over to whisper sarcastically that Wrahsed seemed perfectly fine just moments ago. Their friend did have a habit of being over-eager at times. But the rest of the padawans were not taking these pronouncements lightly. Each seemed to be peering inside himself, trying to get a whiff of this danger the master was sensing.
Noval felt himself tensing. The upcoming negotiations figured prominently in his plans and it would be disastrous if his master had decided to cancel them. "The future is always in motion, it is a difficult thing to see," Nerra had told him once, apropos of nothing. His plans felt well-formed but there were many uncertainties, blanks he had to fill in based on guesswork. A single miscalculation could send him back to square one.
"Danger," the master repeated again and then lapsed into a long silence.
Noval willed himself to relax. The usefulness of the Jedi ability to sense danger was much overstated; without any hints about the nature of the danger, it provided little guidance when it came time to take action. Besides, everything he knew of his master suggested that danger would only spur him on, make him more eager to continue down his path. Nimbo had prized courage above all else and often told his padawans they must never hesitate to, in his own words, ``jump headlong into the abyss."
They sat uneasily for what felt like an interminably long time when, suddenly, the master raised his head and looked at them as if noticing them for the first time. After a brief glance about the room, he dismissed them with the curt wave of a hand and the padawans quickly rose and streamed towards the exit, most eager to put the awkward events of the past hour behind them. Glancing at his master as he walked out, Noval thought he detected a new gleam in his eyes, a certain hardening of the features.
In the coming days, he was relieved to see his calculation hold true: though the master continued to warn about unspecified dangers, nothing about cancelling the negotiations was ever said. As far as Noval could tell, the only change occasioned by master Nimbo's premonition was the issuance of regular warnings to the padawans, to the effect that they must all exercise due diligence. These were always solemnly received, though what form this diligence should take was never entirely clear.
3.
His contact was a shabbily-dressed messenger boy, tall and lanky with frizzled hair. He looked to be no more than seventeen. Van Vodhen wondered briefly at his affiliation - the boy was clearly no military recruit - perhaps the general's relative or his laundry boy? But he had no chance to inquire after the matter: after mumbling something nervously about a pipe, the boy handed him an envelope and excused himself.
The corporal frowned as he read the general's next missive. It was no easy task, to construct an explosive device of that magnitude, all from untraceable components. He could do it without much difficulty in his lab, but to create it alone, at his private residence, from only over-the-counter materials?
Well, he wasn't first in his class nothing. He could see why the general turned to him. This was his chance to shine. He twirled his flowery mustache gently as his mind wandered.
It was easy enough to find materials that explode when mixed together; the trick was always to control the process to make the explosion of just the right size trigger at just the right time. An explosion of that size would need some very volatile reagents, things that would not be easy to handle safely in the lab, let alone at his home.
He had less than two weeks to do it.
He laughed out loud at the sheer audacity of the request. It was just like the general. Though he had never met the man - or even been in the same room with him - Van Vodhen heard many times he was given to having unreasonable expectations of his subordinates.
But instead of feeling dispirited by the task at hand, the corporal found himself in paradoxically good spirits. Though he had no idea how he would accomplish the task, he had a hunch that he would prove equal to the challenge. The sheer impossibility of it spurred him on. He looked around the cantina with glee and rubbed his hands together excitedly, likely looking very foolish to anyone who happened to glance at him just then, and not caring one whit about it.
4.
"I feel underdressed," Krava said as she caught sight of her reflection in one of the crystals embedded within the walls of the temple. She turned and twirled slightly, as if hoping that her Jedi robe would look more colorful from a different angle.
They had just glimpsed some of the Ulth royals entering the temple decked in impressively elaborate apparel: brightly colored dresses, a medley of tunics, overcoats, breeches, frocks, all layered on top of each other and somehow looking elegant all the same. Their robes felt dull and grey by comparison.
Wrasho shrugged. "Many throughout the galaxy feel awe at the sight of a Jedi. It is they who should envy us."
Krava did not seem convinced, but apparently had little desire to pursue it further. She turned to Noval, who had been walking beside them and had fallen back slightly, just beginning to turn away so that he could head back to his quarters.
"Not coming?" she asked, a little surprised.
Noval looked at her with hesitation. "I'm not one for small talk, I'm afraid."
"And I am?" Wrasho said indignantly.
"The master will be irritated," Krava added.
"Will he even notice?" Noval said dismissively. "I don't even know what we are supposed to be doing."
"I believe our instruction was to mingle," Krava said, smiling. "Is that proving too much for your Jedi talents?"
"It seems so," Noval said, wishing to bring the conversation to an end. He turned around only to come face to face with the master himself.
Fortunately, Nimbo had either not heard their conversation or had chosen to disregard it.
"Come, my padawans," he said, putting his hands on their shoulders and looking straight ahead. "Let us join the proceedings. Be at your most vigilant for danger awaits us all."
He led them into the sanctuary of the temple and Noval had no choice but to follow at his master's side.
5.
He told his superior officer that he would be taking leave, inventing an improbable story about an aunt who passed away without warning and a funeral he was now obliged to organize. Infuriatingly, the man made only a semblance of an effort to persuade him to stay, pleading with him for fifteen minutes at the most before signing his leave paperwork. Did he not realize how crucial Van Vodhen was, especially so close to a possible outbreak of hostilities?
He had barely slept over the past fortnight. Strangely enough, he felt as if he did not need sleep now, as if it somehow interfered with his natural creative process. He limited himself to a few occasional naps. Time seemed to speed up, days felt as if they passed instantly in bursts of creativity.
He had to make some unorthodox choices in his design. First, there would be no way about it: the bomb would have to rely on ignited plasma. Plasma was identical throughout the galaxy and would be completely untraceable. Unfortunately, plasma was notoriously volatile and he had to design special circuits to stabilize the mixing and control the explosion rate: three knots of carbonite nanofoam, arranged in a precisely proportioned triangle, each activating the next via short pulses of light before the plasma could begin to ignite.
The only problem was that he had neither the plasma nor the carbonite nanofoam.
But the general asked and the general provided. The letter he received that day from the messenger boy established a channel of communication: he could drop off letters in a safe-deposit box across town and receive a reply stowed in the same box in a matter of hours. His mustache tingled at the realization that, each day, the general was willing to interrupt whatever he was doing to devote time to his project.
He outlined his need for plasma and nanofoam and received the briefest of replies that same evening - "Understood. Will look into it." The next morning he found a inconspicuous jar in the box, something that looked as if it might contain someone's lunch, and when he opened it he saw the materials he required, secured according to the instructions he had provided.
That was a week ago. He had set himself to work with abandon and it had been a genuine pleasure to build the nanofoam contraptions and watch them in action, so delicate and yet so deadly and precise. The smallest mistake, a stray hair or a trembling of the hands, would have resulted in his death, alongside all the other tenants of his building. But his hands were steady and he felt sure, confident as he plunged ahead with the work.
He felt his feelings rise to a crescendo as the device slowly edged towards completion. There was no way to test the bomb, of course, but he could test each component, each subsystem to see that they all performed according to specifications, using simulations to validate the final product. Every passed test left him in a rush of excitement.
And yet when he was finally finished, when the last test had been passed and the final simulation returned results within acceptable ranges, all he felt was relief. Struggling to stand, the first thing he did was collapse on his bed in what he thought would be a short nap but which led him to awaken only on the following day.
It was only then that he allowed himself to feel pleased for the first time. He admired his handiwork, gazing lovingly at the wonderwork of engineering in front of him, and reflected that this is why he was alive - to create, to invent, to do the things that no one else could do.
Well...perhaps a few others could have done it as well, he grudgingly admitted to himself. His demolitions instructors at the academy might have pulled it off. Still, he knew of no one who recommended using plasma for small hand-held explosives like this one. Besides, the idea of stabilizing it with communicating knots of nanofoam was new, was his own, was no one else's.
He smiled and closed his eyes and imagined his creation in action.
The smile froze on his face before being replaced by a more neutral expression. It was war after all, and such things were unavoidable. He was a soldier, a loyal servant of the crown, and he had his duty to think of. He turned his eyes to the portrait of the Plessian monarch hanging on the wall. Duty was not always easy or convenient. His father, were he alive now, would be proud of him, would smile and pat him on the shoulder and congratulate him for a job well-done.
He forced his attention onto other matters. When had he eaten last? He couldn't remember. But the first order of business was to deliver the device.
He packed it in an ordinary-looking box of cardboard, holding it under his arm as he hailed a hovercar to take him across town. On his way, he agonized what to put in his final report and ultimately decided on something terse, something in the general's own style: "Finished. Pleasure to serve. -VV." The general would remember that.
The final step was disappointingly anti-climactic. He put the device in the safe deposit box along with his note, locked it, and stood in front of it for a moment or two. There was nothing more to be done. He felt as if someone should congratulate him now, as if something should happen. But there was only him and the box. After a minute or so, he stepped out back onto the street.
He was in the mood for a long, roundabout walk home. But it was rainy and the mid-day darkness blanketed the planet while he had been inside. In his haste to deliver the bomb, he had not put on the right shoes and his feet felt dank and uncomfortable as he tried to walk around the puddles. Should he flag a hovercar to take him home? None seemed to be around. With a sigh, he set out in the direction of his apartment.
For the first time, he considered the meaning of his project. He had been so caught up in the technical work that he had spared little time for anything else. In hindsight, it didn't augur anything good. It is to be war once again, he thought glumly; like many, he had been hopeful about the last round of negotiations. Well-then, perhaps this time victory shall be at hand, he said to himself without much believing it.
It was a funny profession, being a merchant of death. You work in your laboratory, putting your heart and soul into your creations, these marvels of engineering elegance, and then someone uses them them to maim, kill, and disfigure. So easy to forget, to put it all out of your mind as you go about your day.
The Jedi say there is no death, there is only the force; but he did not find this compelling, it gave him no comfort to think of himself becoming part of an astral, incomprehensible entity - no more comfort, at least, than knowing that his body would one day decay, that worms would chew through his corpse, that his body would be torn apart and mixed up in the cosmic process of life and creation.
No, much better to believe in the endless cycle of death and rebirth, as the old religions prophesied - mistakes in one life fixed in the next, an eternal cycle of striving and ambition and work. It was a more comforting story, with a sense of purpose about it all. .
It was almost impossible to believe in death sometimes, he thought, to imagine that he would one day cease to exist. He had no trouble believing that his body would degrade but what of his spirit?
Some would deny such a thing existed. But was he really not very different from a robot, or, for that matter, any one of the computing devices he built each day? Surely he was very different - for one thing, he experienced pain and pleasure, and that meant he was no mere a collection of wiring, electrical or biological.
He could not believe that a computer or a chunk of rock experienced life the way he did. No, the fact that he felt - either pain or pleasure or other sensations - implied there was more to him than just connections of matter. Perhaps his body was a shell, a connection for something else, something he might as well call a spirit.
And it was impossible to believe his spirit would die. Hadn't his spirit remained unchanged in all the years he had been alive? His body had changed, yes, but his experience of being, that was exactly the same.
A hovercar was approaching in the distance, its bright lights seemingly aimed at him.
No, his spirit was another thing entirely, it could not be altered by mere changes in matter. Affected, yes, changed no. At the core, then, he had to be immortal. What would happen when he died? He hadn't the slightest idea, but he was certain that what he was would not be destroyed, could not be destroyed.
He saw the hovercar closer now and imagined the force it exerted on collision, tons of steel and glass rushing forward at great velocity, crushing against bone and tendon and ligament. Not death, he said to himself, not in any real sense, only the separation of his being from the flesh.
He felt an overwhelming sense of happiness at having understood this. How had it not occurred to him before? He could face the thought of death head-on knowing that it would not be the end, merely the shedding of a form. Nothing to fear, he said to himself, I have nothing to fear. He felt himself released of all anxiety, the usual litany of fears and worries and resentments far from his mind. It would all work out in the end, not only for him but for all sentients who had ever been alive, and that was wonderful, that was all he could ever hope for. Almost by impulse, he stepped into the path of the hovercar, smiling, happy, at peace, without a single care in the world.
6.
Noval's plan was a crude one: a bomb placed beneath the temple would explode, destroying the temple sanctuary housing the negotiations and killing all the people inside. He spent the better part of the night creeping through the cellars to set it up in the right spot. It was something no Jedi would ever do. It was also the right choice.
Everything he had learned on this planet pointed to the cessation of conflict once the royal families were out of the way. It was an enormous act of good he was about to do, not only for the people here but for the galaxy. He only regretted that he could not tell anyone, that he would have to keep all this between him and Nerra, who had taken so many steps towards the dark side that unburdening to her would be of no use, she was beyond understanding the hesitation and nervousness he felt now.
Perhaps one day, when the planet had been at peace for some years, he could find Eeso and tell her the story. He was sure she would understand: the upcoming war seemed to weigh heavily on her when they last spoke and she was analytical enough to understand this was the only choice. He had only her name and occupation to go by, but he was certain that should be enough; if he was not shy about delving into people's minds, he would track her down in time.
He had no wish to harm his fellow padawans or his master. No doubt, that was Nerra had intended from the start: she had likely foreseen the solution he would settle on and calculated he could not do it without killing his master. She was goading into an act so unsettling that he would never again find peace among the Jedi.
But by a miraculous stroke of luck, the final schedule included time for the two royal families to be alone with each other, no Jedi present. He was almost mad with relief when he saw it. Discussions between the master and his diplomatic counterparts made it clear that the schedule would be followed to the letter, minute for minute. Thank the Force - it seemed that sometimes the universe was on his side after all. He timed the bomb to go off precisely half-way through the period. Lest he have cold feet, he included no option to stop the countdown remotely.
It is done, he thought on waking up that morning, there was nothing he could do to stop or alter the course of events now. He was glad for it now as his master led him into the room where the royals were gathered, where he would have to look at the people he was about to kill.
He followed his master around the sanctuary, making no effort to participate in the pleasantries. Twenty-six Plessians and thirty-one Ulth were here now, most of them glaring suspiciously at one another. Fifty-seven total, a small price to pay to end a millenium-old conflict that might soon spiral to include the rest of the galaxy.
Fifty-eight, he corrected himself, recalling the Plessian demolitions expert who unwittingly constructed the bomb for him. He felt a brief pang of guilt at the man's death, but it had to be done, he could ill-afford to leave loose ends lying around. At the very least, it had been as kind of a death as he could muster.
He kept his eyes down and made a deliberate effort to shut out the thoughts that were floating about the room. There was something dreadful about seeing these people, knowing they would soon disappear from the world thanks to his efforts. At first opportunity, he would try to either slip outside or at least into some a deserted corner of the hall. Unfortunately, Nimbo's hand was still on his shoulder and Noval had little choice but to follow his master as he weaved in and out of conversations. The master was hard at work, sparking discussions between royals from the warring factions, gathering them together and asking questions to get the talking started, leaving as soon as the dialogue had some momentum.
It was this way that he came face-to-face with her.
If there was one person he had not expected to see here, it was Eeso. She stood barely a foot away from him, looking faintly absurd in a hideously broad dress. It had taken him several confused moments to realize who it was that standing before him, so different did she appear now. Her face was brightly powdered and her motions were stiff and mechanical, no doubt due to the weight of the monstrosity of silk and cotton she was wearing. He opened his mouth to say something only to close it again.
He had thought of her often since their meeting. She had seemed so wonderfully alive; it was a ridiculous thing to feel, he knew, for were we not all alive to the same degree? And yet there was something more to her, though he could not say what it was. Perhaps his feelings were only a reaction to his constant interactions with other Jedi who were in the habit of suppressing their emotions and never allowed themselves to feel too deeply.
In hindsight, he should have been able to guess the rough outlines of what it was she was hiding. The biological tracker on her hand; the security detail after her; his sense that there was something she was not telling him. She was clearly no mere embassy worker.
His master had been exchanging pleasantries with the man standing beside her and Noval noticed with a start that it was the Ulth emperor, looking a lot less statuesque than his portraits but recognizable nonetheless. He wondered how important Eeso was in the Ulth hierarchy, how close to the throne and its machinations. He had things he wanted to say to her - though he could not say what, exactly, they were - but there was no possibility of interrupting the emperor. Noval tuned into the conversation briefly, but it was mere small talk, platitudes about peace and talk of the weather, crops, and interplanetary trade.
He looked at her intensely and she did not avert her gaze. There was some emotion in her, some hint of dread. She did not look happy to see him. It was tempting to read her mind but Nimbo was close at hand and Noval was not sure whether his master would detect anything amiss.
Suddenly the thought struck him: she would die. Involuntarily he pictured what the explosion would do to her, to everyone in the room, and felt a wave of nausea rising within him.
He forced himself to imagine a scale: fifty-eight lives on the one side, a galaxy-wide war on the other. He had no choice but to proceed with the scheme as planned.
His master motioned someone from the Plessian court to join them and, after a few more phrases, moved away pulling Noval alongside him. Even as he moved, he felt her presence behind him, her eyes directed at his back. Can lives even be compared, he wondered now, wasn't there was something grotesque about weighing human lives against each other? Every sentient was unique, incomparable to the rest.
As his master began a new conversation, he continued this train of thought. Did we not remember the past from from the people who gave it character, those chosen few who altered the galaxy and made it sing of their exploits? How much do the lives of such people weigh when compared against the mass of routine and undifferentiated living?
Another thought occurred to him: was he not, in a sense, taking away the choices of the people here on this planet? There was the choice to obey those in authority and the choice to rebel against tradition, instead to place your allegiance in the principles fairness and reason; the choice to seek revenge and the choice to put it aside; no choice was without its consequences, each one leading down winding alleys of repercussions. He had sought to make things easy for the people here, but perhaps that was cheating, perhaps there was something wrong with robbing them of the dignity to shoulder their own burdens.
Nerra had said to him, not long ago, that nations achieve definition in conflict; might not the same be said of people? He shut his eyes and imagined a peaceful galaxy without Eeso; and then he pictured a galaxy torn apart by war, a backdrop against which he and Eeso and others would struggle and define themselves, each deciding whether he would be a hero or a traitor or a coward or a martyr. Was it so obvious that the former was preferable?
But there was nothing to be done about it now, the bomb was set to explode and it was far too late. Or was it? For one thing, he could announce to them all what it was he had done. His master would renounce him and they would execute him in days at the most, but her death might be averted. Or he could search the possibilities, find a less desperate scheme. But first he had to decide whether that was at all desirable, whether he should proceed as he planned, whether sentient lives ought to be weighted against one another as if they were on a grocer's scale. He raised his eyes for the first time and scanned the hall, looking into the faces of the people here.
And then he made his choice.
