Legacy

Book I


Chapter 11

The grav bike was, not to put too fine a point upon it, a piece of festering bantha chiszzk.

Obi-Wan vexedly slammed the intake regulator panel shut for the third time, reflecting bitterly that he might have made better time scaling the entire mountain along its sheer southern face without a cable. The simulator pods used to train Temple initiates in basic ship-handling skills had a better overall average performance – and they went exactly nowhere.

He breathed away the urgent impulse to deliver a swift kick of frustration to his rickety mount, and then straddled the seat again, gingerly testing the repulsors and eyeing the simple console indicators warily. The swoop rose a half-meter off the ground, evened out, and stuttered into something resembling the clean thrum of compact magneto drives. He let out the throttle, eased the laboring vehicle uphill, and whizzed away again, leaving a puddle of sticky lubricant and a whirling flutter of dead leaves in his wake.


Kerrn and his hand-picked comrades – a half dozen of the Folk's older and more weather beaten members – made excellent time across the plains. The Wanderers kept a single repulsor tractor in good condition, its workaday heavyweight drives plugging steadfastly along as it hauled a small convoy of six laden palettes behind, a man sitting astride the tarped heaps of ionite with a loaded blaster rifle across his knees.

The Jedi master, standing beside Kerrn as the old man piloted the cab, remarked upon the sentries. "Do you encounter potential thieves often?"

Kerrn shook his head. "Nah… three, four cycles back we had trouble with the Folk of the Marsh. Tried to hijack us on the way to the city – can't blame em, there's lean livin' out thatta way, but I'm not givin' up what's ours to save others as is too stupid to move on. Urbs don't hassle us… we gotta fine arrangement, and if they stole from one of us tribes, the rest'd never set foot in trader's arena agin – we've got 'em by the asteroids."

Qui-Gon mulled this over. "I wonder that they don't employ droid gatherers, to harvest their own ionite."

"What?" A snort. "Tried it when I was younger. Revolt's what happened. We Folk outnumber 'em ten to one, did you know it? This planet's got one major settlement outside of us. They about spoiled their pants when the Folk laid siege – thought they were gone fer."

The Jedi master concealed his astonishment. "I have never heard the tale." Indeed, there was no record of it in the Archives database; this was a missing piece of planetary history.

"You wouldn'ta," the Wanderer grunted. "Cowards never reported nothing, nor called in Republic help. They scrapped their vaping droids and we went back to business as usual."

"I see." Naturally, the Niffrendi planetary council would not wish the galactic authorities to discover their illegal trading deal… for surely ionite exports would be heavily taxed, and attract corporate interests with deep pockets and strong-arm tactics, not to mention Hutt mobsters and Togorian pirates. The treasure here was only valuable while it remained relatively secret.

"Yeah. I just got a bad feelin' these lizard barves are whisperin in their ears agin… I don't trust em. Give me the heebie-jeebies."

Qui-Gon smiled tightly, wondering where in all this conflicting knot of motives and deception the purported slave raids fit in… and what the fallout of this mission might be.

For the secret was out; all that remained was to see who would profit by its discovery.


When the grav bike expired for the fourth time, Obi-Wan consigned it to the nine hells in richly inventive language and leaned its over-heating bulk against a convenient jutting slab. At this altitude, the trees were sparsely scattered, and the landscape a mass of weather-smoothed rock and shale. The air was thinner, too – he felt the burn deep in his lungs as his body adjusted to the low pressure.

He grimaced over the sizzling, stinking compressor array and ran both hands through his hair, wishing ruefully for a decent toolkit, or –even better – a cheerful tech fanatic like Garen Muln to do the dirty and thankless work for him. But such was not to be, and he was after all not far from the high summit where the relay station must be located.

He left the useless bike to its own devices and scrambled up the jumbled slope of rock at the foot of the mountain's last sheer sweeping cliff-face. From here, the domed roof and slender spire of a pulse-wave transmitter station could be seen peeking over the stark edge of white granite. The unit looked remarkably permanent for something erected by transient raiders, and his spine thrilled with sudden, unpleasant intuition.

One well-aimed shot with his cable launcher, and his line moored its grappling end in a cleft far overhead. A swift scan of his surroundings – one revealing nothing amiss, and no sentient presence at all – and he fluidly ascended the rockface, pulling himself over its lip and retracting the liquid cable in one graceful motion.

There, humming faintly, smugly omniscient, stood the comm center – a guard post surmounted by the transmittor beacon and a pair of cylindrical generator cells. The door was sealed fast against intruders and plastered with bold signage warning potential trespassers to desist, on pain of "severe prosecution."

Which was, if you considered it from a certain point of view, nothing short of an invitation.


The trade meet was held just inside the main city's gates – a makeshift agora of cracked duracrete pavers fronted a modern block-style building. Kerrn's group unloaded their wares under the portico of this simple structure, shifting restlessly foot to foot as they awaited their contact. It was abundantly clear that the relatively crowded environs – even of this outpost town – unnerved the Folk badly. Two or three quietly lit stinking bacci sticks and took long drags upon them, sending up acrid trails of blue smoke.

They waited a scant quarter hour before a portly government officer, in an ill-fitting short coat cut in the Corellian style, emerged from the main entrance. He was flanked by a pair of nondescript aides and strikingly pale Nemoidian. The Trade Federation delegate was of low rank, Qui-Gon shrewdly inferred, for his absurd hat was less elaborate and almost stunted by comparison to others the Jedi master had seen.

"Excellent, excellent," the Niffrendi trade officer wheezed, shaking hands with an unenthusiastic Kerrn and then rubbing his fingers together in anticipatory greed. "What have you brought us today?"

Kernn's comrades lifted the tarps covering their glittering merchandise.

"Bumper crop," the leader grunted. "Same price's last time. We'll weigh it together."

But the Nemoidian slunk forward, nictitating membranes shuttering his glassy eyes. "A surplus is no occasion to demand high rates of compensation," he reasoned, in his oily voice. "If there is an excess of product, then we could do business with other tribes, surely."

Kerrn hunched his shoulders in vexation. "Yer already rippin' us off, flat-face. You want this stuff, you pay fer it. We got mouths to feed, and the cold season's comin'"

The planetary native wriggled uncomfortably, gaze never leaving the reptilian's hunched form. "Ah yes, of course – your efforts are invaluable to the common good here on Niffrendi – we desire all our citizens to have a fair share in our prosperity, but, ah, certain extraneous expenses have arisen with regard to shipping costs, and, uh…"

Qui-Gon stepped forward, casually placing himself between the hedging officials and the Wanderers. "Shipping?" he inquired, innocent tone edged with steel. "Perhaps it is time the Folk struck a bargain with an independent contractor." He stared down the goggling Nemoidian and then nodded to Kerrn. "Let's go."

"Wait! Wait!" the tall reptilian lisped. "Surely we can reach a compromise."

"And who the hell do you think you are?" the Niffrendi official barked in outrage.

The tall man hesitated fractionally as he turned away, signaling to the assembled nomads to replace the tarps and power up the grav-sleds. "A visitor."

The Trade Federation envoy mined forward, bowing insincerely. "A see you are a man with a keen eye for profit… perhaps a private conference? In my office?"

Qui-Gon's eyes narrowed, appraisingly. "Wait here," he told Kerrn. "I'll return shortly."


The magneto lock was no match for the Force, nor for the sabotage skills Obi-Wan had picked up at the enormous feet of Jettster Dexter, whose magnanimity and encyclopedic knowledge were exceeded only by the questionable nature of his many former careers. The young Jedi was inside the comm station and hacking into its simple control system within minutes, pulling up transmission records and geographical surveys on the mainframe holo-display.

A line appeared between his brows as he fitted the pieces together. Seven connected relay stations were scattered over this main continent, all linked to a satellite processor and to a network of remotely programmable probe units, the locations of which were tracked by a separate nav-computer. He watched the moving dots fan out idly over a wide terrain, feedback signals indicating continuous data transmission to the central hub.

It was all far, far too complex and well established to have been erected by the Legion, which was at best a savage raiding alliance. Not only that, but the manufacturer's sigil on the inside access hatches was Techno Union. The galaxy's foremost tech experts would never do business with disreputable fringe groups like Paxel.

One hand clenched 'round his saber's hilt as he drew the obvious conclusion. "Hells' moons."

A deep inhalation, let out slowly. Surveillance systems used to monitor planetary citizenry were, of course, a violation of Galactic federal law – but he was not so naïve as to suppose this statute was widely observed. And this network might have a more innocuous purpose than those immediately suggested by his cynical imagination. With the majority of the population wandering freely over vast, unsettled territory, there ought – he supposed – to be some sort of communications established. And the Folk were roundly contemptuous of the government that technically protected them. They would never willingly cooperate with a reporting and census system.

The Force twisted fretfully about him, sure indication that his ad hoc justification was far from the mark.

"Blast it." Still, he had no evidence of outright malice. And what motive could there be for attacking the nomadic groups, when they provided a critical economic service?

He wired his commlink into the beacon's transponder panel, and routed the transmission to Qui-Gon's device.


"Excuse me a moment," the tall man murmured, lifting his brows at the unexpected ping from his commlink. "A business associate of mine."

The Nemoidian lingered on the threshold of his spacious private office, clearly intent on eavesdropping.

Qui-Gon thumbed the transmit button. "Have you closed the deal?" he asked, before Obi-Wan could get a compromising word in edgewise.

There was a fractional hesitation on the other end of the link, but the young Jedi instantly covered his confusion. "There is a complication," came the smooth reply. "The supplier we discussed earlier appears to be a front organization for an inside trader."

A long moment as the Jedi master absorbed and de-coded this message. "I see. Are you withdrawing our offer?"

The Force rippled faintly with mischief. "I think we should drive a hard bargain and look for another buyer," Obi-Wan retorted, exuding palpable confidence.

Qui-Gon cast a significant glance at the Trade Federation underling, who was still eagerly ogling him from the open doorway. "No," he ordered. "I've found a possible partner corporation… based on Cato Nemoidia."

Another tiny faltering in the rhythm of their exchange; he could feel the younger man's surprise clearly, despite the distance. "I see."

"I'll let you know whether we can come to a suitable arrangement," Qui-Gon finished, willing his counterpart to understand the situation's complexity. "We'll speak again soon," he added, reinforcing the unspoken mandate.


"Well, that was helpful," Obi-Wan muttered, shoving his comm unit back in a belt pouch. He folded his arms irritably and considered the luminous display still flickering in mid-air over the projector plate. The moving specks of probe droids idly circled upon the map, a swarm of lazy glowmoths smugly keeping their own secrets. He sighed, resigning himself to an enforced wait, a trickle of undefined but certain apprehension descending his spine.

Wanderers, Urbs, Paxellians, Techno Union… and now the Trade Federation. The dejarik board was growing rather overcrowded with new arrivals to the arena. His every instinct needled him to act, to get a move on….

But patience was the Jedi way, was it not?