Legacy
Book I
Chapter 14
Shlomm Tord took his sweet time, waiting until the shuttle was well on its way through atmosphere before entering the small cabin in a rustle of frayed robes, his moldy black hat wobbling precariously atop his sickly face.
"Ah, Mr. Quonn," the Nemoidian lisped, folding his gangly, awkward body into the opposite chair. "I have reviewed your application at length… and I must say, your resume is quite impressive."
The tall man nodded, cautiously. "It's made quite an impression in the past, if that's what you mean – and not always a favorable one."
But the reptilian waved a pudgy hand at him, reassuringly. "We understand the convoluted nature of the Core world justice systems. I promise you, the Trade Federation takes an enlightened view of such entanglements."
I'll bet you do. The Jedi master merely offered his interlocutor a tight-lipped smile.
"I can see why a man with your… experience… might wish to make a new start. And this is a good place to make that start. As it happens, we are recruiting officers for a standing militia."
His interviewee straightened. "An army?"
Shlomm Tord wriggled, glazed eyes blinking rapidly. "A security force. The Republic will sanction its existence – a matter of formalities, really…. the entire affair will be completely legal."
"Ah, of course." Cato Nemoidia's natives were unfailingly compliant with the letter of galactic law. As for the spirit and intention of the same… well. "I came out here looking for a bit of easy profit. An army, now - that implies riskier dealings. Is this about those slave raids? …Rumors have traveled far."
At this the Nemoidian's concave chest heaved, as though in private mirth. "You need not worry yourself about the raids," he wheezed. "They are…under control."
The Force rippled, a broad note of dissonance in the universal energy. "Indeed?" Was it possible…? "Then why this security force you propose?"
Tord gestured vaguely. "Merely protecting our corporate investment in this sector. As I told you, we have a cornered market… but alas, there is no limit to the greed of other beings."
Here Qui-Gon was hard-pressed not to choke upon the irony. "Hutts and Togorians," he supplied.
The Nemoidian's lipless mouth rumpled into a sine curve of revulsion. "Yes. And rivals inside the Republic. There is no respect for business anymore. A sign of the times, you might say."
The tall man crossed his legs the other way, deliberately slumping further into his chair. "So – you're going to raise an army to keep other investors out?"
"Investors… and other interfering busybodies."
"I see." Inspectors. Liaisons and ambassadors from the Core. Trade regulatory commissions – anything that might cramp Cato Nemoidia's style. "What about the local government? I don't want any trouble," he insisted. "I've had enough of that for a lifetime."
Tord grunted, dismissively. "If you will forgive my blunt observation – the planetary economy depends upon Trade Federation goodwill. They have been extraordinarily docile. And as I said, this is all perfectly legal."
"So long as it's legal," the Jedi drawled, carelessly. "And what are my duties and- ah, salary? If you will forgive the blunt question."
"That," Tord replied, standing again, "Depends on your answer. I will give you some time to consider." He shambled out the door again, leaving his prospective hireling to mull over the terms of contract.
The Wormholes ghastly shapes loomed close at last, their outlines blurred by stinging sweat and rain. Obi-Wan skidded to the sheltered blast doors marking the abandoned mine shaft and pounded for admittance, the throb of approaching danger setting his very teeth on edge.
The panels parted a half-meter to reveal two squint eyed sentries. "You!" barked the man who had loaned him the speeder. "What the hell're you doin' out there? Storm's on and the Scythe's gonna start swingin' any time now - And where in blitherin' damnation is that bike?"
"I'm sorry," the young Jedi panted, chest heaving for breath and legs aching with an acidic burn. "Where is Kern- the trading party- my companion?"
"They ain't back yet."
Obi-Wan leaned upon the rough hewn doorframe and gazed into the murky downpour. The traders must be just ahead of the attack party – they might barely have time to make it to the stones' shelter. He heaved in a few more deep breaths. "Do you have any weapons? Explosives? Launchers?"
The two sentries peered at him as though he had lost not only the swoop but his wits.
"What? You gonna take those off into the blue and lose 'em too? Get in here or stay out there, but don't waste our time talking vapin' nonsense!"
The roar of a rattling repulsor-sled saved them from further disputation; Kerrn and his crew appeared around the western side of the slope, driving the convoy at a breakneck speed. The men leapt from their empty palettes like beasts with a predator upon their tail.
"Raiders!" Kerrn shouted. "Just behind us! Get to cover!"
But the mine shafts and the ancient doors that sealed them were no safe refuge from high powered automated tanks. Obi-Wan gasped in a few more pained breaths, peering through the gathering gloom, the driving sheets of rain. "Where is Qui-Gon?"
"That tall friend o yers? He's off on his own business – told us to leave without him."
The man's former padawan slammed an open hand against the rock-face. "Blast it!"
He needed the Jedi master here. Now. In the present star-forsaken moment, when an entire army of robotic destroyers was descending on masse upon innocent people, with intent to massacre.
"Get inside, son !" Kerrn urged him.
His bark of laughter probably sounded mad, too. "No – you go. Do these tunnels have another outlet?"
The Folk's savvy leader nodded. "They run fer klicks underground. Plenty of escape routes."
"Take your people as far as you can – I'll hold them off here."
The gathered Wanderers favored him with pitying looks, appalled looks, looks full of mingled admiration and fear.
The ground rumbled, but not with thunder.
"Now! Go!" Obi-Wan ordered, the strife-wracked Force kindling a new fire in his veins. Exhausted or not, with or without an ally, he would do what he must.
"He's cracked," Kerrn muttered, Git! Git – we'll go fer the other end of the tunnels – get the rest moving!"
His companions hustled away to organize the evacuation; the elder hesitated upon the threshold. "Come on now, there ain't nothin' you can do against them tanks. Save yerself."
"They'll blow the doors in and come after you," Obi-Wan insisted, grimly. "Believe me. I've seen it before."
"Well, an' this'll be the last time you see it , too! We'll take our chances an so should you! Don't be an idiot!"
"Just go."
Something in his expression, or the growling undertone of his voice, worked the requisite trick. Kerrn sighed, and clapped a hand against his soaking wet shoulder, and disappeared into the Holes, sealing the oxidized door panels behind him.
Qui-Gon remained outwardly immobile, sprawled insouciantly in the Trade Federation's molded chair, his long legs stretched out before him. His mind, however, sank deep in the Living Force, the present knot of circumstances, the shifting eddies of avarice and deceit that wove their way through the Nemoidian vessel. What Tord had told him was true, he sensed, but not the whole truth; what the untrustworthy envoy wanted from him was unclear – possibly even to Tord himself; what degree of culpability the planetary government held in the matter was dubious, a point for casuists' debate. In the moment, a focused act of malice was underway – somewhere below them, on the planet's surface. An act that was intended as tipping point, a fulcrum upon which to turn events in the direction desired by the scheming reptilian interlopers.
The threads of a tapestry long in the weaving lay apparent to him now: the Niffrendi government had long ago invested in surveillance equipment and some rudimentary automated weapons, in a failed attempt to wrest ionite harvesting rights away from the indigent communities; the Trade Federation had been secretly dealing the ionite to select buyers for decades, a transaction untaxed and unreported to Republic authorities on both sides; recently Cato Nemoidia had decided to consolidate the investment into its own holdings, by means of an army the Republic would approve under false pretenses. The slave raids that would so conveniently sway the Senate's approval were, it would seem, staged affairs – random attacks against unimportant citizenry, for the sake of some business deal sealed at the highest levels.
But there was more to it – there had to be.
Tord returned with another, shorter member of his species, another minor officer introduced as Boll Ghurb, corporate public relations liaison.
"Have you considered our offer?" the reptilian wheezed.
Qui-Gon waved a hand, idly. "I don't know. The market potential looks good now, but what if your buyer loses interest? Then I'm out of a job. Everyone knows security is the first extra to get cut when the budget gets tight."
"No,no,no," the Nemoidian assured him. "As Ghurb will tell you, our exclusive contract with Baktoid Armories covers a ten year period, minimally."
Baktoid? The tall man sat up, despite himself.
"Ah… you are familiar with them?" Ghurb interjected.
"Somewhat. A man with my background tends to worry about where his… tools… are manufactured." Baktoid specialized in weapons, explosives, armor and automated droid security – high end and black market tech accoutrements for assassins, bounty hunters, unstable planetary governments or those planning to usurp them.
"Of course, of course. Our client has experienced an upsurge in sales, and therefore demand for raw materials is at an all time high. And the trend is predicted to continue."
This was news to the Jedi master. "Really? I wasn't aware Hutts and Togorians could afford to do business with such exclusive dealers."
Tord waved a webbed hand, dismissively. "The Rims are a rough place, Mr. Quonn. The barbarians are not the only people out here… to be frank, the Republic only holds this territory in name. I would not be surprised if a certain multiplication of our customer base were to occur in the near future."
And what did that mean? Sedition? Other outside interests as yet unknown? A power struggle among existing groups over far-flung and unincorporated territory?
"Huh," he responded, feigning boredom. "That's all off my transponder frequency. I just want to know you have something worth mucking about over for more than a day or two. At my age, job security is what counts."
The Nemoidians blinked at him, waiting his decision, their flabby faces and necks absurdly complemented by brocaded velvetar gowns.
"I'll take the job," he smiled.
Obi-Wan stood atop the highest white stone, rain whipping about him, a cold wind driving knives through sopping tunics, tugging mercilessly at loose hair. Beneath the lowering sky, in the gloom of swiftly falling night, the enemy was visible as a ragged line of beetles, dark carapaced bodies crawling ponderously over the soft, storm-drenched earth. They crested a last gentle rise in the rolling plains, and he counted them as they came.
Eleven.
Releasing a Yamalsa technique centering breath, he flipped his 'saber hilt over in one hand, relishing the perfect balance of the weapon, even without the blade ignited, and felt the Force rising like a furious tide to meet the onslaught. He felt himself carried in the vanguard of its momentum, swept up into a power that encompassed every living thing upon the planet, cold rock and chaotic sky.
Lightning flared on the opposite horizon, skeletal fingers of white clawing into the dark veils beyond. In the blinding flash, the cannon of his foes stood out like so many lowered lances, a grim cavalry at the charge. They made a steady marching progress for the Wormholes, clearly aware of the Folk's hiding place, following the natural curve of the land. Another sheet of lightning split the dome above into halves; by its glaring momentary radiance he could see where this route would lead the line of tanks between two massive chunks of glacial stone, burly sentinels guarding the gates to this last refuge.
The armored invaders crept closer, implacable- and the young Jedi braced himself for all-out battle, 'saber blade leaping like sapphire lightning from its hilt, as thunder sounded a clarion war-cry all around.
