Legacy

Book I


Chapter 18

Niffrendi's tortured surface rolled slowly beneath the Paxellian scout ship as it cruised in a low contraequatorial orbit. Heaven's Scythe swung in widening coils, clouds writhing and churning as actinic fire flailed the world's back, laying fluctuating stripes of wrathful light horizon to horizon.

Obi-Wan stood, a trifle unsteadily, between the Paxellian pilot and his massive copilot. The three moons appeared ahead, a cluster of misshapen eggs. And beyond them…

"There," he said, eyeing the spheroid Core ship balefully. A thrill of knowledge passed down his spine: Qui-Gon was aboard the ominous metallic orb, and in peril.

"This is a ship? Of trespassers?" one of the hulking raiders inquired, squinting through the viewport at the unlikely shape.

"Yes. Brigands and thieves, and makers of blasphemous automata. Their ship is full of droids, and they mingle with them as with living beings."

All those hours of debate with Ben To Li, and all the laborious historical research antecedent and consequent thereto, had paid off: he was familiar enough with the basic tenets of Paxellian culture to play upon their sensibilities. His tiny band of warriors murmured and growled in outrage.

"They must be destroyed," the bold leader declared, "And their filth unmade."

Or at least, that was the gist of his declaration; it was difficult to say how much of their thoughts he gleaned from their halting Huttese, and how much he directly intuited through the Force. In any case, the Nemoidians were about to receive a very unpleasant visitation.

They sped forward, quickly coming within hailing range. The standard automated request for identification was summarily ignored by the pirates, along with the reiterated demand, and the warning to veer off or face defensive countermeasures.

"They mean it," the young Jedi warned his crew – but there was little need. The pilot clutched at the yoke with huge, calloused hands, expertly rolling away from the first two blasts, and then executing a series of evasive maneuvers wild enough to rival the suicidal mating dance of paired thranctills. The Raptor dove and spun, wove and looped, six of its seven occupants giving voice to primordial war cries as they hurtled beneath the cannon and slammed straight through one of the open cargo bay doors, breaching the blue magcon field in a shower of sparks and noise and then grinding to a sickening halt across the cavernous interior, carving a long skidding scar into the deck.

Droids poured forth from their guard stations, gangly bodies clutching blaster rifles, conical heads twitching and bobbing atop spindle necks.

The Paxellian crew charged forth, energy pikes and spears, heavy blasters, and other blunt barbaric implements at the ready. They required no urging onward, nor did they spare a single glance backward at their wilting deity as he followed in their frantic wake at a far more collected, cautious pace.

The droids fired a volley of shots at the berserker battalion, but the Paxellians ducked behind lightweight shields of some supple material, a shimmering barrier sufficient to deflect or absorb the plasma bolts. Undaunted, the young warriors charged down their foes, falling upon them with unrestrained savagery. Droid bits were strewn like confetti and falling fireworks; the Paxellians hollered an unearthly curse in their native language and thundered onward, into the adjoining corridor.

Claxons blared, emergency lights flashed. Obi-Wan discreetly trailed behind his enraged comrades, unable to stem the tide of their aggression even had he cared to do so. His own reserves were all but depleted, while his less than genteel acquaintances' seemed to be refreshed by the prospect of limitless violence. He crept down the passage and then ducked into another, flitting from level to level, corridor to corridor, his steps guided by the Force, by that unmistakable polestar of Qui-Gon's presence in the universal light.

He crept closer, closer, and then halted abruptly as his progress brought him to the threshold of a barricaded door. It bore all the hallmark characteristics of a detention bloc entrance, and any lingering doubts were dispelled by the sound of an imperious Nemoidian voice raised in whining condescension to its underlings.

"Intruders on the storage decks! Send another security squadron down there immediately! Don't blather at me, you idiot, do something!"

The tramp of droid feet echoed overhead, as further soldiery was sent to address the Paxellian threat. Storage decks were located deep inside a Core ship's spherical hull; he had to grin a little at the crazed raiders' sheer battle prowess, or else at the droids' utter ineptitude. He pressed himself against a support column as the doors swept open to admit a foursome of automated guards and a short, disgruntled Nemoidian in sumptuous robes. This individual made off in the opposite direction, shadowed by his pathetic and clanking honor guard.

A moment later Obi-Wan had pried the panels open again with the Force, and stood swaying in the center of a small antechamber. Heart hammering against his ribs, he surveyed the surveillance screens imbedded in the circular console, noting the location of the only occupied cell. A rapid search of the lockers built into one wall yielded a most essential treasure: Qui-Gon's lightsaber, stowed away in a compartment all its own. He splayed the fingers of one hand against the lock and pulled, wrenching the seal out of place.

The 'saber's crystal chimed inaudibly as his fingers closed about the hilt, the handgrip smoothed by years of use, the weight of the weapon proportionately greater than the perfect balance of his own.

He leaned against the row of sealed cabinets, pulse throbbing in his temples and heart laboring against his ribs. It would not do to pass out here, before he had completed his quest. He summoned strength out of thin air and turned to the last corridor, stalking down its dim length with grim determination, nape hair prickling as he drew near the last door on the right.

It was open- and what lay beyond made his lip curl in protective outrage.


Even when Ghurb had hurried away to address some unspecified security threat, Shlomm Tord lingered. The cruel Nemoidian was manifestly enjoying himself, despite his obvious lack of success as an interrogator. His mashed features contorted into a leer as he subjected his helpless Jedi captive to an excruciatingly extended one-sided interview.

"Why did the Republic send you?" he demanded, for the tenth time.

No answer; he jabbed viciously at the pulse intensity regulator, sending a searing jolt of fire through his victim's body. The resulting cry of pain had the Nemoidian dancing in place with glee.

"You pitiful scum!" he gloated, relishing his position of power. "This will teach you to meddle in Trade Federation business! Tell me, what report have you sent to the Galactic Senate?"

No answer; the penalty was predictably more severe.

"Where is the other Jedi?" Tord shouted, viscous spittle spraying from the corners of his jagged mouth. "I know there is one!"

Qui-Gon merely glared, and then arched against the ensuing agony, causing the pain to redouble. Perspiration soaked his tunics and hair; surely his limbs would be trembling uncontrollably were they not rigidly frozen in place. And then… against all probability.. he felt it, like the glimmer of a rising sun, a bright disc breaking triumphant over dark's horizon. One corner of his mouth twitched upward in giddy welcome, in unembarrassed relief.

The Nemodian foolishly misinterpreted his reaction as a crack in his stoic resolve.

"I'll ask you one more time," Tord sneered, leaning forward avidly, glazed pupils dilated and hands clenching at his sides. "Where is your associate?"

"Right behind you," a quiet voice answered, velveted steel in every precise syllable. The reply was accented by a double snap and hiss as two 'saber blades leapt to furious life. The Nemoidian pivoted on the spot, posture rigid with horror.

Obi-Wan looked an outright mess, but his double-salute was as jaunty as ever. He flashed a full grin at the unfortunate victim of his private jest and advanced a single step, both weapons growling throatily in the cell's cool air.

Tord shrieked like a skinned grog and went scuttling for the far end of the room, pressing himself vainly against the wall and banging a fist upon the comm panel. "Security! Security detail to the detention level!"

The young Jedi spared the containment field controls a brief and disgusted frown before opting for the direct approach. He buried both 'sabers hilt deep in the generator, reducing the machine to molten scrap and the shimmering blue mag-field to fizzling oblivion.

Qui-Gon stumbled heavily, limbs uncooperative and uncoordinated as he all but fell forward into Obi-Wan's supporting grip.

"Easy, Master."

Tord made a dash for freedom and was thrown into the corner again at a flick of the young Jedi's wrist. "No you don't."

"Obi-Wan… what are you doing here?"

The silly question was met with raised brows. "Rescuing you, of course. You really must be more careful, Master Jinn."

The tall man snorted, strength sluggishly trickling back to him with his returning circulation. He held firm to his companion's shoulder, eyeing the bloodied and tattered remnants of the young Knight's clothing. "The same would seem to apply to you, my friend."

Obi-Wan gravely deactivated the emerald blade and pressed its hilt into the older man's hand. "What? This? Just a bit of 'saber practice against remotes."

They slipped through the door, sealing it and burning out the locking mechanism. Tord sobbed and raged on the other side of the heavy panel, still calling futilely for security.

"I'm sorry we can't arrest him," Obi-Wan gritted out, leaning heavily against one wall. "We're going to have to leave the party early." He kicked aside a stray droid head, which skittered down the polished hallway floor.

"You're not well," Qui-Gon accused him, the Force amply testifying to the truth of his statement.

"I'm fine," his companion panted. "…And you're just as bad, so it doesn't count."

They stared each other down, dashing tunic sleeves across sweat-slicked brows in unison.

The Jedi master chuckled. "Like master, like padawan."

An explosion, or a barrage of heavy blaster fire, erupted on the other side of the thin bulkhead wall. The Jedi exchanged a look in which dark humor and urgent practical resolution were equally blended, and then dashed away down the corridor.

Or rather, limped away down the corridor.

"Where next?"

"Here. No, here. Blast it."

"This way," Qui-Gon decided. They hadn't the energy to bicker any further.

"Easy."

"I'm fine, Master."

"Hm."

They shuffled forward, leaning upon one another and occasionally stopping to rest against a wall, breathing ragged and loud in the echoing Core ship's interior. "You brought reinforcements, I presume?" the tall man asked.

Obi-Wan nodded, perspiration trickling down his collar now. The Force was awash with pain and exhaustion, the last grains of endurance swiftly running through an hourglass. "Paxellian marauders," he explained, between heaving inhalations. A forced grin. "They've abominable manners."

"Paxellians?" Qui-Gon repeated.

"I'll explain later," his companion grated out, staggering slightly. "We've got to get to that hangar…"

They made no very heroic entrance to the docking bay in question, bedraggled and weary as they were. A pair of sentry droids posted on duty blocked their path with blasters raised.

"Halt. Halt."

The Jedi glanced sideways at one another, and then shrugged. Either man held out a hand, and the guards went sailing into the high girders, where they smashed to bits. Droid circuits and plating pinged and bounced off the scored decks as the pair clambered heavily up the scout ship's boarding ramp.

"This is our escape vehicle?" Qui-Gon teased his young counterpart.

The young Knight shook his head, face suddenly grey. "You'll have to pilot," he whispered.

The Jedi master dragged him over the hatchway and slammed the ramp control. "I thought you were rescuing me." He tightened his grip.

"I just did," Obi-Wan insisted, soundlessly, a moment before he collapsed in a dead faint.

Qui-Gon hauled him into the copilot's seat, strapped him in, and brought the foreign ship's systems online, gut instinct guiding his hands over unfamiliar yoke and console. The Raptor rose on repulsors, wobbled, and then dove through the mag-con field in a blaze of shorting shields and explosive thruster-flare.