way out to Vjun, and the whole process so far had been excruciatingly boring.
After taking an hour to drop off their baggage and another hour getting tickets,
they had been standing in this monstrous security line for nearly three hours.
It was all very well for Maks Leem—she was a Gran. Gran were descended from herd
animals; they liked crowds. Jai singularly didn't. He was a private man at the
best of times; the muddy wash of emotions slopping around him—anxiety,
irritation, preflight nerves, and sheer shrieking boredom—was foggy and
irritating at the same time, like being swaddled in an itchy bantha blanket. On
top of which, their position was ridiculously exposed. A would-be assassin could
loom out of the crowd at any instant. Even if he had time to react, simply
drawing his lightsaber in the crush of this crowd would probably lop the limbs
off a couple of innocent bystanders.
On top of which he was supposed to look after his new Padawan, Scout. Not
that she had done anything wrong so far—if you didn't count her annoying
tendency to contradict his judgment, more than a little off-putting in a
fourteen-year-old girl. But she still had her left hand in a bandage, and bacta
patches on her burned leg. Not only was the Force weak in her; the truth was,
she ought to have been lying in the infirmary sipping Hillindor fowl soup.
And to be honest—which Jai Maruk was, even to the one audience to whom people
tell their worst lies, himself—Jai didn't feel ready to deal with a Padawan. He
was a doer still, not a teacher. He wanted to get back to Vjun and make good his
last miserable interview with Count Dooku, and he didn't want to drag a teenage
girl across the galaxy at the same time. Clearly Master Yoda had a reason for
forcing the Padawan on him, but Jai hadn't learned to be happy about it.
And as for Master Yoda himself .. .
Jai glanced uneasily at the little R2 unit traveling with them and caught it
starting to sidle out of line again, slipping under the security ribbons.
"Scout, check the artoo," he grated. "It seems to be having a little difficulty
staying put."
The girl clapped her hand on top of the R2's caparace, which gave an odd
ringing thump, as if she had whacked the side of an empty metal barrel. "Don't
worry, Father," she chirped. "I've got an eye on him. On it, I mean."
"At least we're nearly at the head of the line," Master Leem said soothingly.
A little knot of security officers in the tan-and-black colors of the
Republic were directing people into a dozen different security scanners, so the
one mighty line splintered at the end of its journey like a river dividing into
a dozen channels to run into the sea. Each station was staffed by a pair of
weary, irritable security personnel; behind them, additional squads were
performing random security checks, opening people's carry-on luggage and making
them empty their pockets and performing pat-down searches.
"You should have packed your lightsaber in your luggage," Scout murmured to
Jai Maruk.
He gritted his teeth and made a grab for the R2, which had skittered forward
and bumped into the Chagrian in front of them. "Terribly sorry," he ground out.
They got to the head of the line. "Line seven," the security guard said to
Jai Maruk. "You to line eleven, and you're in line two," he said to Maks and
Whie. "Line three for the girl. Who's the droid going to go with?"
"Me," all four of them said at once.
The security guard raised an eyebrow.
"I'll take the artoo," Jai Maruk said. "We are all traveling together. You
should let us go through the scanners together," he added, slowly and with
emphasis.
The security guard started to nod, caught himself, and glared at Jai Maruk
with redoubled suspicion. "Like the song says, you'll meet again on the other
side, Twinkle-toes. But you just earned yourself a completely random Deep Tissue
Inspection. DTI on number seven!" he bellowed.
"But—" Master Leem said.
"No time for that," the guard said, shoving her toward line number eleven.
"But----" Scout said.
"No time for that, either!" The guard shoved Scout toward line three. "And
take the artoo with you."
A couple more security guards stepped forward. Behind them, the crowd began
to mutter darkly about the delay. The four Jedi exchanged glances, and split
apart.
"May I ask why I am being subjected to this extra search," Jai Maruk said
icily.
"Random search, sir, completely random, completely for your protection," said
the guard on station number seven, a briskly competent middle-aged woman. "Plus
you look like a Drucken wellian."
"That's because I was born on Druckenwell," Jai grated.
"But Coruscant papers, I see. Neat trick," the guard said.
"I've lived here all my life—"
"Except for the part where you were born there? Incase you didn't know, sir,
Druckenwell is an avowed member of the Trade Federation, with which—perhaps this
escaped your notice as well—we are currently at war. Oh ho!" she said, laying a
hand on the hilt of his lightsaber. Instantly Maruk's hand was covering hers, a
dangerous light in his eye.
The guard met his glance. "Are you interfering with a security guard in the
line of duty, sir?"
"I am a member of the Jedi Order," Jai said quietly. "That is the handle of
my lightsaber. I prefer others not touch it."
"Should have packed it in your luggage then, shouldn't you?" she said
perkily.
"And if pirates were to attack the liner, I'm supposed to run to the cargo
bay and find my weapon somewhere between my shirts and socks?" Maruk hissed.
The guard smiled at him indulgently. "Look, sir—you and I both know the Jedi
Order has its very own star-ships. If you were really a Jedi Knight, you
wouldn't be flying out of Chance Palp, would you?"
"But—"
"You can always explain it to my manager. Rumor has it the wait is less than
two hours!"
The guard at security point three was a dull-eyed young man with a lip full
of Chugger's Chaw. "Walk directly beneath the scanner beam with your hands at
your sides," he mumbled.
"Sure," Scout said. She gave the R2 a little nudge and they went at the same
time, Scout passing underneath the scanner while the R2 lurched uneasily around
the outside.
No lights, no sirens. Whew, Scout thought. Glancing over at security point
seven, she saw Jai getting a lecture from the security staff. He looked like he
was going to pop a vein right there on the concourse. Scout congratulated
herself once more on stashing her lightsaber in her luggage.
Her guard paused to eject a long string of brilliant green spit into an empty
stimcaf cup. "Sorry, ma'am. The droid has to pass through the scanner, too."
"The droid? He can't," Scout blurted.
The guard blinked. "Regulations, ma'am. The Trade Federation is spreading
madware through our droids. We start letting them skip the cleaners, one day
you'll wake up in your very own home and find it's been conquered by the
smartvac and the laundry droid."
"Are you serious?"
/> "They use microwaves," the guard said, jetting another stream of spit gravely
into his cup. "The artoo's got to go through. Come on, little fella," he said,
making a chucking sound in his throat, as if calling a faithful hound.
The R2 gave a weird, croaking wheep and shook its head.
"He can't go through," Scout said desperately. "He's afraid of scanners."
"Afraid of scanners?"
"It's his eyes. Video sensors, I mean. Very delicate, specialized," she
babbled. Next to her, Whie had breezed through line two. She gave him a
beseeching look. "This little fellow actually belongs to my grandfather," she
said, giving the R2 another hollow-sounding slap on the carapace and then
wishing she hadn't. "He's a Seeing Eye droid. That's why his sensors are so, so
. ."
The guard's mouth was hanging open, and a little line of spit was dangling
from his lower lip. "Seeing Eye droid, my butt," he said. His eyes narrowed.
"Let me see those papers again, and get that tin can back behind the red line so
he can go through the scanners proper!"
Whie picked up his carry-on and stepped over to rejoin Scout. "You don't need
to scan the artoo again," he said casually.
The guard blinked.
"It went through with the girl," Whie said. "They both checked out fine."
Splotch. The trickle of green spit soaked slowly into the guard's uniform
shirt. He looked down at it and swore. "Git on," he said, waving his hand
irritably. "I don't need to scan the artoo again."
Scout looked from Whie to the guard. "So . . . we checked out all right?"
"You checked out fine. Now, git! Can't you see I'm busy over here?"
"Yessir. Thank you, sir." Scout walked quickly away from the guard station.
Whie followed behind, checking the heft of the lightsaber on his hip and
grinning at her.
"That was impressive," Scout whispered. "Must be nice, to just make people do
what you want."
"It comes in useful every now and . .." For some reason, looking at her, he
trailed off, and the smile left his face.
"What's up?" Scout said. And then, "Hey—aren't we missing someone?"
In a crowded spaceport concourse, a standard R2 unit is easy to overlook.
First, there is the issue of size. At just over one meter in height, an R2 is
quickly obscured in a dense crowd of humans, Chagrians, Gran, and assorted other
humanoids. Then, aside from a lack of physical height, there is the issue of a
droid's comparative lack of psychological size. To a sentient organic, another
sentient organic is an object of great interest: will this new person be my
friend or enemy, help me or harass me, thwart me or save me a place in the
stimcaf line? Droids, on the other hand, occupy a spot in the consciousness of
the average sentient being roughly analogous to, say, complicated and ingenious
household appliances. A programmable food prep, for instance, or a smart bed. To
a humanoid, a droid—unless it's a battle droid approaching with laser cannons on
autofire—just doesn't matter very much.
To a droid, on the other hand, another droid is exactly life-sized.
Which might explain how it came to be that one little R2 unit, still in its
original drab factory colors, could go lurching and wheeping through the dense
crowds thronging Chancellor Palpatine's Delta Concourse almost completely
unnoticed, despite the fact that it kept banging into shins, walls, and water
fountains as if, instead of sensors and a fine computer brain, it was being
navigated from the inside by a hot, grumpy, and increasingly exasperated person
with only four tiny eyeholes to look out of.
It might also explain why, in the midst of so much obliviousness, this same
droid was being pursued, quite relentlessly, by a second R2, this one painted in
the smart crimson color of the Republic, with the fine insignia of security
painted on its carapace .. .
"Ma'am?" The guard on security point eleven was a perspiring middle-aged man
with a double chin. His hair was grizzled black and white, cut to a military
buzz under the sweat-stained edge of his uniform cap. "Ma'am, I'll have to ask
you to step to one side with me here."
Master Leem's jaw began to work. "But, why, Officer? Have I done—"
"Just step over here with me, please."
With all three brows furrowing, Maks Leem followed the guard a few steps
behind the scanner equipment. He stood with his back to the crowd. "Don't look
around, don't look around. Just act natural. Make it look as if I'm going over
your ID chip."
Master Leem looked at him blankly.
"ID," he said.
She handed it over.
He made a show of inserting it into his datapad. "Ma'am, sensors indicate
that you are carrying a high-energy focused particle weapon on your person."
"I can explain that—"
"Most of the guys here wouldn't recognize that sensor signature," the guard
went on, voice still low. "Not me. I know what it is. I know what you are.
There's a group of us, we trade information, you know, but I never thought I'd
actually see . ."
"I'm not sure I understand," Master Leem said. "Don't look around. Don't
look. Just act natural. I recognize the scanner sig," he said huskily. "You're
Jedi, aren't you? I mean, the real thing?"
Maks Leem chewed twice. Three times. "Yes. I am."
"I knew it." The guard's voice was thick with emotion. "You're undercover,
aren't you? People say the jedi are only out for themselves now. They say
they're just the Chancellor's secret police. I never bought that for a second.
That's not the Jedi way."
"It most certainly isn't," Maks Leem said, genuinely shocked that anyone
should think of the Order as the Chancellor's private band of thugs.
"On a mission," the guard said. "Don't look, don't look. Act natural. Just
tell me what you need. I can help. Happy to help. Risk no object," he said
hoarsely.
"Truly, you are a friend of the Order," Maks said.
"Tell me about it. You know how many times I've seen Jedi!—? Fifteen. Fifteen
times. And I'm going with my nephew next week. Give me a mission. Just act
natural and give me a mission," he said. "Risk no object. Anything to help."
"You've already done it," Master Leem said gently. The guard blinked. "Did
you think it was an accident that you were working security today?" she said.
"Did you think I came to your line by chance?"
He looked at her, awestruck. "By the Force!" he whispered.
"We know who our friends are, Mister . . . Charpp," she said, reading his
name off his security badge. She tapped the handle of the lightsaber hidden
under her cloak. "But remember, nobody must know. As far as everyone else is
concerned, I'm just a humble traveler on her way out to Malastare to visit
family. All you need to do now is act natural."
"Act natural." He nodded dutifully, making his chins wobble. "Of course, of
course. But . . ." Here his voice grew very slightly wistful. "Is there anything
else?"
"You could give me back my ID chip."
"Oh. Right." He shoved it back into her hands, the chip now liberally
smirched with sweaty fingerprints.
"When the time co
mes, we will contact you," Master Leem promised. "In the
meanwhile: may the Force be with you!"
Leaving him standing there with tears brimming in his eyes, Master Leem
hurried over to the two Padawans. "I'm glad to see you made it through. But
where's Jai?" she said. She frowned. "And where's you know who?"
Evan Chan hated to fly. Oh, not in the atmosphere. Tooling around the
atmosphere in a lightflier was fine. Also, boats were good. As an environmental
hydrographeror "water boy" as his class of professionals were known in the
environmental impact biz—he spent lots of time zipping across planetary surfaces
and sampling their oceans, rivers, and lakes. It was getting to other planets in
the first place that was the problem.
The whole idea of the jump to hyperspace—the atom-juggling, light-smearing,
molecule-twisting jump—made Evan queasy. Not just nauseous and sick to the
stomach—though it did that, too—but spiritually uncomfortable. And yet there was
no way to carry out his work as a government-certified pan-planetary water
evaluator without jumping. Traveling to any planet outside the Coruscant system
by sublight would take literally lifetimes.
Which is why he was in the men's refresher of the Delta Concourse at Chance
Palp, sipping discreetly from his precious hip flask of liquid courage—SomnaSkol
Red, in the 0.1-liter travel size.
He studied himself in the mirror over the sink. To tell the truth, he didn't
look great. Faced with the prospect of a longer-than-usual hyperspace jaunt, he
hadn't slept much over the last three days. His eyes were hollow and bleary, a
two-day stubble shadowed his face like an unpleasant mold, and his knees were
feeling distinctly jellylike. He put his head in his hands and leaned forward
over the hard white glare of the sink.
A droid came into the refresher, banging off one wall with the sound of a tin
can hitting a ferrocrete sidewalk, and scooted into one of the privacy stalls.
Evan blinked. He was trying to remember if he'd ever seen a droid in a
refresher before. Perhaps a custodial droid, but this had been an R2 unit, with
no security insignia on it.
"Odd," Evan said out loud. Or at least, that's what he meant to say. As it
turned out, the SomnaSkol had left his lips numb, and the word trailed out like