About the Author
John Jackson Miller is the New York Times bestselling author of the Scribe Award–winning Star Wars: Kenobi as well as Star Wars: A New Dawn, Star Wars: Lost Tribe of the Sith, Star Wars: Knight Errant, and the Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic graphic novel collections from Marvel. He has written novels and comics for other franchises including Star Trek, Battlestar Galactica, Halo, Iron Man, Mass Effect, Planet of the Apes, and The Simpsons. A comics-industry historian, he lives in Wisconsin with his family, assorted wildlife, and far too many comic books.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter 1
Aboard the Regal Zephyr
Hyperspace
“Good morning!”
Leaning against the bulkhead of the interstellar transport, Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn looked up at the sound of Obi-Wan Kenobi’s voice. The words weren’t for him. Farther back in the Regal Zephyr’s crowded passenger cabin, his apprentice had finally found an open seat and had spoken to the dark-haired human across the aisle. Qui-Gon didn’t need to be a Jedi to sense the young woman’s apprehension as she tightly clutched her duffel bag.
Obi-Wan noticed it, too, and quickly sought to put her at ease. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t know you were sleeping.”
“I wasn’t,” she replied curtly.
“Hyperspace does make that difficult.” He gestured to the whirling miasma outside the Regal Zephyr’s smudged viewports. “It’s hard to know what time of day it is. I sense you don’t like flying any more than I—”
She made a sour face. “Look, that seat’s taken.”
He glanced around. “I’m sorry, I should have—”
“My husband will be here any minute.”
Obi-Wan quickly stood. “Excuse me.”
He bowed and walked the few meters up the aisle to the forward wall, where Qui-Gon stood near the door to the galley alongside the large metal briefcase that was their cargo. The Jedi Master gently grinned. “Trouble on approach?”
“I wasn’t even in the right galaxy.”
“I promise you’ll make at least one friend before we reach Coruscant, Obi-Wan.” Qui-Gon craned his neck to look around the compartment, which contained far more riders than seats. “I would say it’s mathematically impossible not to.”
Often in the past, Qui-Gon had encouraged his Padawan to use the quieter moments on their journeys to get to know people. To connect with them. It wasn’t that the young man had problems making friends; Obi-Wan had a natural ability in that regard. But the structures that turned younglings into Jedi Knights also tended to isolate them—and that could give them the wrong idea about their places in the galaxy. That was why Qui-Gon often chose commercial transport, such as the inaccurately named Regal Zephyr, one of a dwindling number of passenger vessels serving the Ootmian Pabol, once a key route leading from the Slice to Coruscant. A seemingly endless flight aboard a ship that smelled like a trash compactor was both humble—and humbling.
Automatic doors opened on Qui-Gon’s right. He and Obi-Wan watched as a haggard man entered from the galley, carrying a squirming child in each arm. Ignoring the two Jedi as he trudged past, the man approached the woman Obi-Wan had spoken with. After passing a toddler to her, he displayed a single food pouch, one of the meager rations offered by the galley concessionaire. The reunited family looked exhausted but also hungry. They tore into the pouch and emptied it in seconds.
Qui-Gon walked down the aisle and approached the young parents. He drew a pair of tokens from the folds of his cloak and got their attention. “Pardon me. You dropped your meal vouchers.”
“Those aren’t mine,” the man said, eyeing him. “I just used our last one.”
“Then these must have stuck to your shoe. Easy to believe, around here.” He looked to the hungry children—and back to their parents. “Please. They shouldn’t go to waste.”
The wary mother stared for a moment before taking the tokens. She rose. Daughter on her hip, she trotted off to the galley. Qui-Gon retreated to his previous station.
Obi-Wan smirked. “We’ll be skipping breakfast, then.”
“You wouldn’t have enjoyed it.”
“You’re probably right.” He surveyed the surly faces around the cabin. “I’m afraid I lack the common touch, Master.”
“There’s that phrase again.” Qui-Gon shook his head. “Every being is your better, Obi-Wan. Remember that, and service becomes second nature.”
“I never tire of hearing that one.” Obi-Wan spied another open seat, nearer to where the two Jedi stood. He straightened. “Back into the fray.”
“Try a bit more energy this time. The galley’s out of caf.”
“Done.”
Qui-Gon watched as his apprentice gamely stepped over and sat beside a large huddled figure. The Jedi Master had seen him earlier: a massive member of the Houk species, with leathery blue skin and no apparent ears or nose. None of that was visible now, as he was wrapped in a cape and cowl—odd choices, given the warmth in the cabin.
Checking quickly to ensure that the Houk wasn’t asleep, Obi-Wan adopted an antic smile and addressed the passenger. “Hello there!”
Beady yellow eyes went wide. The bruiser growled—and abruptly rose to his towering height. The Houk threw off his cloak to reveal a blaster holstered to his chest.
Obi-Wan’s eyes widened. “If you wanted to be left alone, you only had to say so.”
“Quiet!” The muscular Houk turned to face the rest of the cabin and shouted, “Now!”
Two more cloaked passengers rose and shed their disguises. A scar-faced Klatooinian and a horned Devaronian reached for their weapons. The latter had his blaster in his hand first. Golden eyes and sharp fangs flashed as he shouted, “Nobody move!”
Qui-Gon saw Obi-Wan start to rise—only to pause. His Padawan looked instead to him. Qui-Gon had his hand near his lightsaber, still hidden inside his robe—but he, too, waited. He shot a look he knew his student would understand. No bloodshed. Not with so many innocents about, with nowhere to go.
“What’s the meaning of this?” an elderly passenger demanded.
The Devaronian waved his blaster. “Lemme introduce myself. I’m The Lobber—that’s right, that Lobber. This ship is now under the control of the Vile!”
The Vile. Qui-Gon knew it as one of several interstellar gangs active in the Slice, the colossal wedge-shaped fan of star systems stretching from the Core Worlds to the Outer Rim. It wasn’t an outfit many from Coruscant would have heard of, and it didn’t sound like a great name for recruiting purposes. But clearly the passengers knew what it was, given their anxious reactions.
The name also seemed to unsettle someone else: the Houk standing near Obi-Wan. “The Vile?” he asked. “I thought we were doing this for the Skulls.”
“The Skulls?” the Klatooinian grumbled in a low voice. “We talked about this, Ghor. The Filthy Cred gang will pay more than either.”
“Shut up, Wungo.” Lobber waved his blaster at the Klatooinian. “Save it until we’re done.”
The Staved Skulls. The Filthy Creds. Qui-Gon knew the names. More operations from a regional underworld that was increasingly aboveground. He surreptitiously nudged the case he’d been traveling with under a nearby seat. There was a play here, the Jedi Master knew. He just had to find it.
“This is madness,” the young father declared, clutching his wailing son. “We’ve got nothing to steal!”
“That’s obvious enough.” Lobber gestured to the ceiling with his blaster. “We’re stealing the ship.” He pointed to the Houk. “Ghor, you know what to do.”
Ghor grabbed an empty canvas bag from beside his seat and moved into the aisle with it. “Any weapons, give ’em.” He had turned away from Obi-Wan—a stroke of luck, Qui-Gon thought—but it was still too soon to act. Wungo the Klatoonian was in motion, too, with a sack of his own—only he was demanding valuables.
“You just said you only wanted the ship,” a Rodian passenger snarled.
Wungo snapped, “Shut up!”
An elderly traveler began to weep. “What—what’s to happen to us?”
Lobber laughed. “We’re going to put you all out at the nearest stop.”
“Where?” the young father asked. “What’s for us there?”
Flustered, the Devaronian raised his voice. “Quit your moaning. You’re lucky we don’t just space you all!”
Qui-Gon had seen and heard enough. The hijackers had no plan or even any agreement on whom they worked for. Amateurism often meant recklessness and the potential for harm—if he didn’t act quickly and smartly. He cast another look he knew his Padawan would recognize and took a step from the bulkhead.
Putting his open hands before him, he spoke calmly. “My friends, there’s no need for this.”
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