Legacy

Book I


Chapter 13

Obi-Wan rappelled down the cliff face in a single controlled fall, boots rousing a tiny cloud of dust where he landed. He flicked his cable's grappling end loose from its mooring with the Force and retraced it in a long, snaking coil of urgency. Three swift bounds over the intervening boulders, a short sprint to the stone where he had propped the asthmatic grav-bike, and –

He skidded to a halt, a frown contracting his brows.

"Not good." Confound it. Why must there always be complications?

Or in this case, a lumbering niffenbear, one of the more spectacular features of the planet's unique fauna. The beast – a hulking brute every bit as huge as a small bantha, and endowed with half-meter long scimitar curved claws upon its forepaws, was systematically disassembling the unfortunate swoop, disemboweling it with all the enthusiasm one would expect of a hungry forager that had stumbled upon an outsized bezzil hive.

Lubricant dripped from the machine's split tanks; the niffenbear licked tentatively at this amber drizzle, then snuffled in astonished repugnance, growling a little at the honey's foul taste and aroma.

Its small beady eyes shifted to the intruder, and it emitted another warning thrum deep in its waggling throat.

Obi-Wan exhaled slowly, making no sudden moves that might be interpreted as hostile.

The bear reared up, baring sharp teeth, and waving the outlandish claws about its body, a display of strength and size intended to intimidate competitors.

It would have been more prudent to retreat, of course, but – "I don't think so. You owe me one, my friend." The young Jedi raised one hand, calling upon the Force's omnipresent power, and reached for the animal's dim mind.


Qui-Gon submitted the application from a public com terminal, styling himself Quonn - a moniker bestowed upon him many years ago during a lengthy undercover mission and never fully retired - and uploaded bogus identity documents to prove it. He congratulated himself on keeping several former aliases stored on his holo-disc's memory crystal; he had also retained the citizenship papers and curriculum vitae for one "Ibo Bikenowa," on the supposition that such might again come in handy – though he had not revealed this to the proper owner of the fictitious persona. Obi-Wan had a marked distaste for clandestine operations, though he was eerily adept at dissimulation.

Moments later he received an automated message inviting him to an interview aboard the Nemoidian freighter ship presently occupying Niffrendi's upper orbit. He was to report to docking bay twelve in the main port, where he would be met by a commuter shuttle and his prospective employers.

With a grim chuckle, he accepted the innocently couched invitation and then sallied forth into the city's mercantile sector, in search of a few extra props for his intended play.


The niffenbear did not make a comfortable steed, but it compensated for this inconvenience in sheer speed and cunning, descending the mountainside in a unlikely and convoluted series of zig-zags, heaving body flowing over tumbled rock and between close-pressed trees with amazing agility. It huffed and grunted and more than once lost track of the purpose imposed upon its small glimmer of intelligence, taking a sidetrack to investigate some alluring source of provender. In this manner Obi-Wan learned that the beast's ferocious appendages were in fact tools for the destruction of dead tree trunks and the digging of trenches beneath stones; that the bear's appetite ran to sap, honey, and crawling insects rather than any more impressive predatory menu; that even the most strident of Force persuasion was barely sufficient to convince the self-assured and amiably bumbling creature to get on.

Halfway down the slope, he admitted to himself that this was a preferable means of transport to the broken grav-bike, though a saddle might not have been a poor addition to the scenario. He had nearly slipped off a half dozen times in the last half hour, and that was not counting his near decapitation by a jutting branch as they dove beneath the overhanging bough. Only Jedi reflexes had saved him from humiliation or worse.

At the forest's edge, where the slope smoothed into a blank expanse of stone-dotted plain, his willing mount finally balked, instinctual avoidance of the empty land over-riding even the compulsion laid upon its will by invisible power. The young Jedi slid to the damp earth, grimacing at the lowering clouds overhead, and relinquished his hold upon the beast. It blinked at him four times, befuddled, and then turned tail and dashed back to the cover of its native environs, enormous haunches rolling comically as it pelted across the soft groundcover and into the first line of trees.

"Right," Obi-Wan sighed, eyeing the distance between here and the blurry specks of stone marking the distant Wormholes, the Wanderer's natural refuge. Under the overcast sky, in such a randomly textured and flat vista, it was difficult to estimate the number of klicks lying between – but it must be of near marathon proportions.

He reflected wryly that he had not run all those countless training circuits about the Temple's perimeter in vain , or for not purpose beyond the obvious disciplinary one- nor had all those hard months wandering the blasted surface of Melida-Daan done him any harm. He was capable. Taking a moment to immerse himself in the Force, in stone and sky, humble succulent underfoot and electrical ripple in the storm-laden air, he breathed in strength and stamina not his own, boundless power gathering beneath the dark billows of the sky.

Raindrops spattered on his upturned face, heralds of a cold army on the march. He exhaled, returning to center, to self and the body, blood already flooding quicker through its pulsing riverbed. He regretfully shrugged free of his heavy cloak, not wishing to imagine what the Temple's cantankerous quartermaster might say when he requested a new one, and let the umber cloth drop in a heap to the damp earth. It was a waste, no doubt, but a necessary sacrifice if he was not to be encumbered by its copious folds and extra weight.

Thunder signaled the beginning of the race; he took off at a measured sprint, Niffrendi's ceaseless wind at his back and the Force's vibrant claxon of danger ringing in his pounding ears.


Thunder rattled the spaceport hangar's lofty girders, the Force growling an inaudible counterpart baritone. Qui-Gon Jinn's confident stride faltered infinitesimally; too well did he know that peculiar sense of foreboding, the penumbra of danger falling over one absent but never far in the Force. He hesitated, scowling regally at the heavens far overhead, their dark clouds obscured by the corrugated metal roof.

Obi-Wan…

But there was no way to issue warning and besides, such a gesture would be rebuffed as somehow insulting to the younger Jedi's competency, would it not? And if the Force deigned to warn him, Qui-Gon, then surely it would gratuitously and copiously enlighten its newest chosen servant, the one who would do "what he must" despite what any other mortal might do to interfere?

The tall man's exhalation was a harrumph worthy of Master Yoda at his most cantankerous. He chuckled bitterly at himself in its aftermath, at the brave masquerade of irritation behind which a gnawing fear paraded beneath his ribs. A Padawan's place was at his master's side – for more than one reason; a Knight's was in the field, duty foremost and personal safety second, third, or nowhere.

He was not dealing with a child any longer – and the fact that had in the Temple, or at staid negotiating tables, presented such an innocuous, mildly sentimental countenance now leered at him with gargoylish aspect, a grim and merciless reminder of the perils of their calling, of his impotence to thwart or change the decree of Fate.

Someday, Qui-Gon, you will live to regret your saviour's complex.

Yan Dooku's cultured tones, polished to a supercilious sheen, echoed n his memory. With another disgruntled sigh, he wrested his wandering attention back to the immediate, rigidly circumscribed moment and his task. He flowed across the tarmac like a scudding thunderhead, and accosted the Nemoidian ship's bosun standing attentively at the foot of the designated shuttle.

"I have an appointment with Shlomm Tord," he briskly announced.

The minor officer, lowly enough within the rigidly structured caste system to merit nothing more impressive than a squat hands-width of conical black as headgear, bobbed and wheezed, sending him up the ramp into the ship's hold, where a pair of equally low-ranking crew members waited with a foursome of spindly security droids.

These latter the Jedi master favored with a disdainful stare; unless the Techno Union managed to produce the inept machines in greater numbers, the automated soldiers would never amount to anything truly threatening in the mercenary world. Besides their inept humanoid shape, the remotely programmable bots were infamous for slow processors and lousy weaponry. It would take a technological revolution to render them remotely intimidating, as the now defunct but legendary Footmen droids had been in centuries bygone.

A miracle perhaps fueled by rare-grade ionite?

He stowed the insight away for future meditation, making a great show of complying with the tersely issued command that he divest himself of any weaponry.

Theatrically, he unloaded the two blasters, small hand held dart-stunner, matching vibroshovs, a clutch of small low-grade explosive grenades, and a throwing knife hidden in his boot. The Nemoidian duo's green, fleshy skin blanched to a sickly grey as his casually insouciant strip-down yielded such an egregious surplus.

"That's it – besides my hands, which are not removable." He adopted a wide-legged stance, emanating boundless confidence. One of the droids accidentally swung the barrel of its unwieldy blaster rifle in his direction, and he shoved it out of the line of fire with two fingers.

"Uh..oh, yes… thank you… a precaution, you understand… this way, I will announce your arrival. We are scheduled to depart in ten standard."

He was ushered into a small cabin outfitted with chairs and a table bolted to one bulkhead, and told to please wait for the Financial Officer to join him. The pressure door hissed shut behind the quavering guards, sealing him in the quiet, dim-lit bowels of the Nemoidian vessel.

He crossed his legs and settled in, the Force urging him onward toward the heart of the mystery.


Halfway to his landmark, Obi-Wan slowed to a halt, bending over with hands on thoroughly soaked knees. The rain pelted down, relentless, washing rivulets of sweat away in a cold deluge. He panted, drawing in the Force, drawing in oxygen, his lungs burning and abdominal muscles cramping badly along his left side.

There were techniques to handle such inconveniences, of course.

He sank to his knees, despite the rain-logged vegetation underfoot. In, out. The skies roiled with thunder, and the light waned into a dismal grey ocean. Moisture cascaded down his already drenched back, spattered onto his upturned hands.

His heart hammered frantically against his chest, his blood sang in his ears. The world seemed to spin and throb in unison with his wild pulse. Halfway there, but not far enough. And not fast enough. Center, center, center.

Before his inner eye, imagined droid tanks underwent a metamorphosis, transmuting into legions of the undead, into ravening empty-eyed hordes. Rain turned to dust, lightning into lurid twilight, cold into gnawing abandonment.

I am not on Melida –Daan The Force is with me. The illusion dissolved, running into the colorless smear of the world all around. Danger swelled on the horizon, a rising flood.

Breath is vital fire, fire is the Force; feel the Force burning, unquenchable, within you. Feel its infinity, its bottomless origin. Breathe it, burn it, burn in it. Be as a lantern consumed by Light. There is no weakness, there is no pain. There is only the Force.

Lightning hit somewhere – not near, and yet not a great enough distance to be comfortable.

He rose, burning vital fire in every cell, new strength flooding his veins. Go, go, go.

He sprang forward again, dashing over the slippery plains, flying headlong over the wide grasslands, toward the jagged ramparts of the Wormholes, while the standing stones seemed to cheer him on, white faces turned in astonishment toward the lonely messenger hurtling over the storm-lashed earth.