Legacy

Book I


Chapter 15

The first of the murderous assailants crept to the natural stone gateway's threshold, the place where two jutting slabs of white granite marked the entry to a primordial circle, a petrified council of giants. Wind screamed high above the plains, scattering rain and hail like autumnal leaves; dusk fell, a doomsday blackness smothering the wild world in angry, storm-fraught nightmare.

Now!

Obi-Wan plunged deep into the Light, self and place smearing into a radiant ambiguity, stone and earth and grass and air rushing in to fill the interstices of being, a totality crowding into a single fragile vessel, the whole becoming the part. He cried out, alight with a power he could not long contain or direct, and pushed the tallest of the monoliths over the edge of its axis, tipping it past gravity's fulcrum. Its mass teetered, swung, and keeled over in a slow arc, crashing thunderously into its misshapen neighbor. The second stone ripped loose of its sodden mooring, a colossal white tooth ripped free of the planet's jaw, and rolled into the leaning pillars between which the tanks now crawled in quiet, malicious procession.

The nearest colossal column was cleaved in twain, top half sliding ponderously against the base, keeling over into the gap with an apocalyptic crash. The foremost tank escaped destruction by a hairsbreadth; the second was crushed to ruin - and the third must have been clipped by a massive rock shard, for there followed a bright flaring explosion, one bright enough to rival the lightning.

And with a silent war cry, a thranctill's piercing scream resounding in the Force, the young Jedi leapt off his high perch, falling upon the battlefield like a spear of blue lightning, weapon blazing an elaborate helix about his body as he soared down in the path of the first tank, now temporarily separated from its allies by a wall of stone. The thing was a hulking automated monster, ungainly but deadly, treads foregone in favor of reticulated mechnical legs; it scuttled implacably forward, targeting light flickering in menace.

Obi-Wan sprinted, throwing himself ahead of the first blast, rolling beneath the metallic creature's heavily shielded belly. The conveyance halted, tramped side to side, began a slow about-face; he could hear the whir of servos as the cannon swiveled wildly about, seeking him.

His 'saber howled in delight as it swung, severing thick legs at the joint in merciless succession: right, left left, right again, bringing the monstrosity to its knees. another slash on the left and the whole mass reeled drunkenly above him as the truncated supports bent and sparked, sinking deep into rain-soaked earth. He rolled wildly beneath the falling mass, taking off the last extremity as he narrowly escaped the collapsing chassis. The tank thudded into the mud and trampled succulents, blasting indiscriminately at a target it could not find. Heavy power artillery slammed into the tumbled rock beyond, sending up a spray of massive fragments, dust, and burning debris. The young Jedi sheltered himself from the onslaught with the Force, leapt high and somersaulted to the cannon barrel, straddling the enormous pipe and shouting fiercely as he swung down, blade carving a vicious, molten line in the housing. The whine of another shot loading –

-he flew off his perch, heart hammering –

-and the blast tore the weapon's barrel apart, its explosive charge igniting inside the chamber, ripping cannon from mooring and punching a smoking hole in the armored body. With a terrible groan, the killing machine expired, burning sullenly in the veils of rain, sending up toxic ribbons of smoke.

Three quick shoulder rolls and Obi-Wan was back on his feet, squinting through hail spangled darkness, sensing rather than seeing the approach of the remaining enemies. They had rounded the obstacle now, four and four, a group to right and left, executing a classic pincer maneuver.

Teeth gritted, a furious protective growl sounding in his throat, he dashed toward the right-hand group, fleeing behind the shelter of another stone, leading the hunters on a merry chase.


Tord reappeared after a lengthy hiatus, making some excuse about running a standard background check. He invited his new employee to join him in a private conference salon to discuss details of salary and benefits.

"You know," Qui-Gon observed offhandedly, "If you really want to turn a profit on this ionite, you ought to institute droid harvesting. One time capital investment, and after that no middle merchant."

Shlomm Tord, leading the way to the Core ships upper level communications deck, indulged in a low chuckle. "Apparently the locals tried just that forty years ago.. it was a disaster. They purchased some security equipment and surveillance systems form the Techno Union and attempted a coup… unfortunately they were very short-sighted. The indigents outnumber the settled inhabitants ten to one."

"A failed coup," Quonn neatly summarized. "Still," he idly mused, "Once a security force is occupying the planet, it might be easier to convince the natives to back off and let an efficient workforce take over."

The Nemoidian rubbed his oily hands together, shuffling down another long corridor. The Jedi master took careful note of their routa and the intervening lift shafts. "You catch on quickly, my friend. We should have no more difficulties with the nomadic groups once we have our militia established." He stopped at a wide security door and punched in a complex code. "The most delightful irony is this: the Republic will license our efforts precisely to protect those worthless scavengers."

The tall man's heart clenched. The Folk were the intended victims of a military action to be initiated on their behalf? The Force was murky, its broad currents convoluted and warped by conflicting patterns, indiscernible eddies of malice and conspiracy. "How do you mean?"

They entered another private conference chamber, one containing four of the ubiquitous security droids. Thus far, Qui-Gon had counted upwards of three score, wandering the passages and holds of the ship; he wondered uneasily how many more were packed away in storage, and to what purpose. He had not inquired yet as to the nature of the intended militia, and it struck him now that it might be of an entirely non-sentient character.

"Please, come in, Come in." The doors self-sealed behind them, the ominous thunk of blast panels falling into place outside. "Forgive the precautions – we cannot be too careful , even in our own ranks. There are grubs and climbers at every level."

Qui-Gon nodded. Cato Nemoidi's culture was a seething mass of ruthless competition and rigid caste structures. Every member of the Nemoidian race was brought up to fight and manipulate at will, to ascend as high as possible within the societal hierarchy. Those left behind were deemed worthless and consigned to poverty and misery working in the fungus farms that fueled the world's original economy. The vast wealth generated by the planet's trading franchise was shared by only an elite percentage of the populace, and therefore an object of boundless avarice and obsession.

"I still don't quite follow you," he prompted his host, who was busily pouring from a carafe of fermented chom'kubba.

Tord smirked. "Don't be naïve, Mr. Quonn. There aren't any slave raids from the Outer systems. That is a rumor perpetuated by my Federation… and it has been very useful in swaying Senate opinion. The attacks on Niffrendi have all been coordinated by the planetary government – with some encouragement, of course. Even as we speak, one of the more obnoxious nomadic tribes is being wiped out completely. When news of the massacre reaches Coruscant, a legislative decision in favor of our army will be a matter of course."

The Jedi master stilled, forcibly concealing his alarm behind a bland façade. The Force tautened further, seeming to affirm his disgust. Danger weighted the very air - a suffocating veil of deception. "Very ingenious," he remarked. Massacre. And not, as he had supposed, at the hands of a barbarian warlord, but as the result of an insidious conspiracy, a threat originating much closer to home.

Obi-Wan had been right.

And with that realization, a flood of concomitant anxiety threatened to ruffle his composed exterior. At this very moment… stars' end. The Folk of the Stones. Massacre. Danger. His padawan.

Former padawan.

"Mr. Quonn?"

"I am stunned by your bold ploy. Clearly the Federation is much more than the shipping franchise I thought it to be."

Tord slurped noisily at his brew and proferred the tall man a second fluted cup – but the Force was vibrant with a new alarm, a twisting omen of immediate danger, of cunning betrayal. Qui-Gon's eyes narrowed. Did Tord think him a naif? "No thank you." He waved the noxious beverage away, nerves tingling, muscles tensing. Something was very wrong, in the here and now, not just on the planet's surface.

"You are right," the Nemoidian lisped, upending his cup. "We have a … singularly powerful consultant. An ally of sorts. And, I must tell you," – here Tord coughed a bit, perhaps choking on the tea's foul flavor – "it was his insight that both formulated this plan, and also, " – another wheezing gasp, bug eyes bulging – "he that recognized your false alias…. Master Jedi."

The reptilian abruptly slumped forward in his chair, Force signature all but snuffed out. Qui-Gon sprang to his feet, uttering a short curse under his breath at his own foolhardiness and blind confidence – and then another as the air pressurizer vents hissed audibly.

The four droids standing sentinel in the corners leveled rifles at him; his 'saber was in his hand and ignited before they had drawn a bead. Plasma bolts zinged and ricocheted off the bulkheads, scorching plastoid molding and the expensive gription foam deck coverings. The emerald blade swept and arced, rebounding fire into its originals, chopping heads form spindly necks. The last robotic guard slammed into the blast doors with such force that his extremities popped from their sockets and rolled in three directions.

In the next instant, the Jedi had sunk his weapon hilt deep in the door, intending to carve an opening. But the elapsed time had been too great – within seconds, the venting system's powerful decompressor had sucked all breathable air from the room. In battle, without a chance to initiate a Yamalsa holding breath, he was badly compromised. His head spun, his lungs burned. A Force technique stayed the effects of asphixiation off for long seconds, a minute, longer; the door melted to slag at an agonizingly slow pace, his arms aching with terrible fire as he fought to drag the plasma blade against unyielding tritanium. His circle widened, crumbled…

….almost free….

blackness pain crushing nothingness –


Two of the automata blew each other to smithereens, coming round opposite sides of his shelter and simultaneously opening fire; Obi-Wan leapt clear of the blast, landing atop the stone itself and nearly losing his balance as the shock wave rocked its foundation. The third enemy targeted him, cannon ratcheting upward as it hurled another devastating blast in his direction. The explosive pummeled the stone beneath his feet, sending him flying again, this time against his will as a second shock wave seized the air and flung him skyward. Chips of stone and shrapnel pelted his wet skin, and he twisted away, slipping and rolling heavily upon the rain-slick grass.

"Ugh!" He clutched at bruised ribs, slewed round and ducked again as the destroyed boulder split in half and toppled into two parts, the near side crushing another tank. He grinned at that - and then cursed as his dogged pursuer bore down upon him.

'Saber. Saber – where was it? His hand reached out blindly into the Force, and the hilt came sailing into his hand, straight and true, as though seeking its rightful place. The blade ignited a split second before the next blast hit, deflecting the powerful energy packet at a crazed angle, and all but sending him head over heels backward in a sprawling heap.

Blast and blast! He sucked in a deep breath, certain that his shoulder was dislocated. Not good. He sprang up, ignoring the pain, the grind of bone against bone, switching to left-handed reverse grip, shoto style.

Let it come.

The machine lumbered forward, legs rising and falling like the cleavers of some fanatic chef, the splayed metallic feet squelching the groundcover underfoot, pressing deep tracks in to the rutted, muddy earth. The young Jedi cried out, back and arm screaming in protest as he flung himself beneath the threat of its cannon, skidding on one knee under the massive body, favoring it with the same treatment he had given the first. Legs sawed off, this time right left right left right duck and roll left – it collapsed with a groan, weapon discharging once feebly before its foe was upon it, plunging his 'saber deep into the targeting light, and then springing away.

Circuits gone haywire, it sent off blasts in every direction, a mad carousel of energy bolts spinning into frenetic night. The remaining tanks lurched forward, confused by the friendly fire, sensors overloaded by smoke and rain and furious lightning. One of them went down, taking a hit direct to its motivators. Its bulk skidded and slammed into its crippled comrade, taking them both out in a deafening fireball.

Obi-Wan dodged and leapt over flying slag, ducking as a sheet of molten blast paneling whizzed over his head. Three more. He panted, his borrowed strength seeming to bleed out of him with every throbbing pulse of his wounded shoulder. Not yet – he could not fail, not now, not like this. He would finish the fight.

He brandished his 'saber in a showy flourish, willing himself forward on a wave of desperate resolution, his face drawn into a belligerent, challenging snarl - and charged headfirst at darkly looming death.