[X] Stay in the cockpit.
One day you will be a Jedi. One day you will have the power to stand shoulder to shoulder with your friends against threats like the ones they now face, or even to stand in front of them. One day when you feel that darkness and see those blades of burning red, you'll be able to meet them with your own light.
But today is not that day.
The realization is bitter, and even without it you've never had an easy time sitting still. You still feel called to find a way to help, to put a thumb on the scales even if it doesn't tip the balance. But Qui-Gon wanted you here to keep you safe. If you die, what becomes of your dreams of training as a Jedi? What becomes of your mother and the slaves of Tatooine?
But in the end, you come to a conclusion that tips the balance. If the Trade Federation wins, it won't matter if you stay in the cockpit or not. The droid armies and their dark leader will find you. At best, you'll be killed. At worst, they'll sell you back into slavery.
Without your intervention, will they be victorious? It's hard to say. But in the tangled weave of events unfolding across and above this scarred green-blue planet, you have a feeling that there is a thread that was made for you.
You glance down at the cockpit readout. All systems nominal, no surprises there—but you do notice something unusual. The craft's autopilot is on, and it has charted a course into orbit. From the telemetries this ship shares with the other Naboo starfighters, you can tell that the course takes you towards a very particular Lucrehulk battleship, one boasting towering arrays of antennas and transmitters. You may not be familiar with warships, but an engineer like yourself knows a droid controller when he sees one.
And there it is, limned in gold on the tactical display: your thread.
"Oops," you deadpan, flicking the autopilot on.
You feel a familiar, comforting rumble of engines and repulsors in your seat. In moments, the ship lifts off and hurtles out of the hangar. You've made your choice—now all that remains is to see it through.
<Boosting power to engines,> R2-D2 reports. His words scroll out in plain Aurebesh text on your readout, but you don't need the translation to understand Binary. <You'll need it where you're going.>
"I thought you'd have more of a problem with this," you observe as the blue Naboo sky starts to fade to black.
It's not really possible to change tone in the language of droids, but somehow, R2's beeps sound a little more subdued. <My primary function isn't to choose the destination. It's to make sure the ship, and more importantly its crew, gets there safely.>
"Even if the destination is an enemy battleship bristling with turbolasers and swarming with fighters?" you ask. It's only half a joke.
<Especially then.>
You knew there was a reason you liked him.
As you approach the battle, the droid control battleship begins to resolve into view. You didn't get a good look at the Lucrehulks on your way in, but seeing one up close puts you in mind of a decaying carcass: rot-grey durasteel coating crawling with droid starfighters like carrion insects. The only flashes of color are the vastly outnumbered Naboo starfighters with their bright yellow paint and chrome plating, the sparks of green and red blaster fire, and the fiery explosions they ignite.
<Disengaging autopilot in three…two…one.>
You take hold of the controls, feeling the fighter respond smoothly to the merest twitch of the yoke, and angle yourself towards the fight. "Any advice before I get into this, R2?"
There's a pause, and then, <If one of them chases you…do a snap-roll?>
"So your advice is to try spinning?"
R2 isn't able to sound quite as defensive as you know he must be feeling, but he shoots back, <It's a good trick!>
You smirk. "I'll keep it in mind."
<Look, this is my first time in a starfighter battle too, [[affirmative]]? I'm making this up as I go.>
"Yeah, you and me both," you say, and open the throttle.
Can an arrow fired into the heart of a storm still fly true? You are about to find out.
Readouts scroll across your console, indicating that R2 is plugging into your allies' telemetry and comms to help you understand your place in this battle. But as he sorts through the information, an N1 whips past you with a Trade Federation fighter hot on its tail. You snap your own ship into a quick turn and squeeze the trigger, and searing green plasma shears off the enemy's two left "wings". It spirals off into space before detonating in a cascade of fire and shredded metal. You catch a quick "Thanks!" from the N1's pilot over the comms before it banks away to rejoin the fight.
An enemy defeated, a life saved. It's an auspicious start. But a start is all it is.
"Call it, R2," you say.
The droid obliges. <This whole battle hinges on whether or not the [[ally designate: N1s]] can crack the battleship's shield. A concentrated proton torpedo salvo could do it, but they're too outnumbered. The [[hostile designate: Vulture droids]] are isolating them and surrounding them.>
"So, thin out the flock?"
<And do it fast.>
He's barely finished speaking before you're off into the melee, cannons blazing.
The Vulture droids hardly stack up to Podracers, let alone the Naboo pilots who have trained to fight in space—which makes sense, since they're mindless machines controlled from a central computer—but there are very, very many of them. Not that you're particularly bothered by having a target-rich environment. Your N1 scythes through the black, dancing around their fire as you shoot them down one after another.
In some stories of past wars and battles, you've heard phrases like "their righteousness lent them strength". And that's true of this Battle of Naboo as well—you are fighting for freedom, and in that cause you will not falter. But there's something else, too, that makes your skills cut deeper. Despite everything that's happening…you're having fun.
You revel in the thrill of speed and momentum, the coppery-bright taste of adrenaline sizzling on your tongue, and above all the glory of vanquishing the enemy. Once or twice you even catch yourself laughing as you dive, twist, and strike through buzzing clouds of Vulture droids.
And yet…
<This isn't working,> R2 reports.
You're forced to admit that he's right. For every Vulture you shoot down, the Federation seems to have five more. And his prediction that the N1s could be isolated and picked off one by one is coming true. In the distance, you see one mobbed by Vultures that hammer it with blaster fire until its shields fail and it explodes in a shower of shrapnel. And closer to you, the droid controller makes a cold calculation and simply rams one of its fighters into one of your allies, trading an expendable drone for an irreplaceable life. The pilots' screams over the comms seem to echo in your mind.
Needless to say, you are no longer laughing.
"Plan Besh, then," you mutter. "Okay, R2. Find me a path to the hangar."
<It's too late to fetch reinforcements, and anyway we don't have any more—>
Of course. You should have clarified. "I didn't mean our hangar."
There's a pause, and then, <You know I'm the one who has to keep the ship together through all this, don't you?>
"Not if we don't get hit," you say.
<I'm going to hold you to that. Calculating.> It takes barely a fraction of a second before a route appears on your console, plotted in the same golden lines that guided you here. <Go through Octet Four-Besh and stay low. The N1s knocked out three turbolasers in that area, so the point-defense fire is thin.>
Without another word, you dive down towards the spot he indicated. You skim over the Lucrehulk's hull scant meters below you as you weave between gun emplacements, freight docking clamps, and antennae. More Vulture droids than you care to count peel off to follow you, but their mass-produced engines and remote-controlled maneuvers can't keep up with a pilot of your caliber in a fighter engineered with Naboo precision, shattering themselves against obstacles that you easily dodge. Despite the fact that you'd never stepped into a starfighter cockpit before today, this is all beginning to seem eerily familiar to you, and you think you know why.
"Now this," you say to yourself as you lay eyes on your destination, "is Podracing."
Of course, winning today is a more complicated affair than just crossing the "finish line". You'll have to time your entrance perfectly, to make it into the hangar while the shield sector covering it is still down to let more Vultures fly out—and avoid a head-on collision while you do it.
The hangar door grows larger and larger in your vision as a new flight of Vultures emerges…but then the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. A stray droid fighter arrows in from behind you, cannons blazing. You throw your fighter into a snap-roll that probably saves you from being turned into scrap—it turns out that it was a good trick after all—and another N1 sweeps in underneath your pursuer to hammer it to pieces with its blasters. But the distraction has cost you valuable time when every microsecond counts, and the shield is closing.
You push your fighter as hard as it will go, aiming for the narrowing gap between the bands of energy. By a hair, you slip through and avoid being smashed. But power surges wildly through the ship as you pass through the first layers of the shield. Only a tremendous effort from you and R2, working in concert to slow your fighter, keeps you from crushing yourself against a wall of durasteel instead of a deflector shield. You careen to a stop in a cavernous cargo hold, wincing as metal scrapes against metal and throws up sparks.
As battle droids, droidekas, and tanks begin to move to surround you, R2 says, <You had one job.>
"Very funny," you grumble. "As soon as you can get the power back, I'll—"
There is a breaking, or a tearing, or a severing. Something was in this world that is not anymore.
You gasp and double over as if you've been punched in the stomach, and in that moment you understand exactly what has happened.
<What's wrong?>
"R2," you murmur as you recover, "I think something terrible just happened to Qui-Gon."
<I'm not going to ask how you know that,> he replies, <but we only have one chance at this and we can't waste it. Take time to [[untranslatable:mourn?]] later. Right now, you take the shot.>
With that, your ship's power whirrs back to life. Your targeting computer beeps—R2 has already calculated a firing solution on the nearest shield generator.
"We have you surrounded," one of the battle droids says in its buzzing vocoded voice. "Power down your fighter and step out of the cockpit or be destroyed."
Your answer comes in the form of a proton torpedo launch.
Twin bolts of blue fire lance into the shield generator and detonate into a blaze almost too bright to look at, and the shield protecting this area of the Lucrehulk flickers and dies. With nothing to hold in the atmosphere, there's a roaring rush of air that sweeps up battle droids, droidekas, and even tanks like children's toys. You fire up the engines as your ship starts tumbling, and ride the wave back out of the hangar and into the blackness of space.
As you emerge, you see the swarming Vulture droids pause, moving with less certainty and purpose. The control computer and the bridge crew are distracted by your bold gambit, and there's a gap now in the battleship's impenetrable protection. You've created the perfect vulnerability—an eye of a needle through which to slip your golden thread.
Breaking away from their pursuers and moving with fresh morale and purpose, the other N1s form up on you. Moving in unison, the squadron wheels around like the flourish of a blade and opens fire.
The first salvo of proton torpedoes shatters one of the Lucrehulk's long, curving arms. And as the crippled battleship's power flickers and dies, the second volley strikes it directly in its central core, plunging a mortal blow into the heart of the beast.
Sparks from the blossoming fireball gutter out in space, and not all of them are the kind you can see. Your new awareness, growing almost by the moment, reminds you that drones weren't the only crew on board that ship. In other words…you have taken your first sapient lives today.
You suspect that they will not be the last.
But you can still remind yourself of this: you have not killed for nothing. Victory is yours. You have lifted the boot from the neck of Naboo, and a planet and all its people take a grateful breath of free air.
<"And Ekkreth turned into a bird and flew away,"> you recite quietly. With a start, you realize it's the first time any Amatakka has passed your lips since you left Tatooine. <"And Depur awoke to find all his slaves gone.>"
**
When you return to the palace, one look at Obi-Wan's face confirms your worst fears of what happened to Qui-Gon.
You wish you could comfort him, but a man like Obi-Wan needs his space to grieve. And besides…sometimes there are no words that can fill the emptiness a person leaves behind.
Time seems to pass in a blur, as Naboo and Gungans alike set to work tending to the wounded, searching for the missing, and paying respects to the dead. But eventually a semblance of order begins to emerge from the chaos—just in time for the arrival of a red-clad diplomatic transport from Coruscant, bearing the Jedi Council and the newly-elected Chancellor Palpatine.
The Chancellor emerges first, flanked by blue-robed Senatorial Guards. He strides down the landing ramp to greet Obi-Wan, who has reassembled his mask of stoicism despite the grief you know must be tearing him up inside.
"We are indebted to you for your bravery, Master Kenobi," he says. And then, to your surprise, he turns to you. "And you, young Skywalker. We will watch your career with great interest."
Slaves rarely benefit much from "help from the Core"…but then, most of them aren't known by name to the Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic either. If you want to change the galaxy, being close to Palpatine might augur well.
And you're quickly given another reason to be in high spirits: Nute Gunray and Rune Haako are frog-marched to the transport by Naboo security, to face the Republic's justice. HoloNet cameras buzz around them, capturing Naboo's unexpected victory for viewers across the galaxy. You particularly appreciate the handcuffs they're shackled in—it's gratifying to see them in chains for a change.
Padmé, still dressed in royal finery, stares at the two magnates coldly. "You could have left us in peace, but your greed was your undoing," she tells them. "This will be the end of the Trade Federation."
Gunray scoffs. "We acted perfectly within our legal rights. The Senate will hardly dismantle the economic engine of the galaxy over such a minor—"
She punches him in the face.
You're shocked that she can even move in an outfit that elaborate, let alone throw a punch, but it lands with a solid crack. He doesn't have a nose, but if he did, you're fairly certain she would have broken it. Gunray topples to the ground with a cry of pain and indignation, losing his hat as he falls.
The Senate Guards pull him up, and he puffs himself up as if to threaten retribution and revenge…but then he sees the look in Padmé's eyes.
He slinks back up into the transport without another word.
**
A Jedi funeral, it turns out, is just as reserved and ascetic as everything else the Jedi do.
There were many who wanted to give Qui-Gon a hero's memorial, but their voices quieted when Obi-Wan refused, telling them it wasn't what his departed teacher would have wanted. And so he is commemorated with a quiet ceremony in one of the palace's rotundas, where his body will be committed to the flames and to the Force.
A few members of the Council—most prominently Masters Yoda and Windu—step forward to say a few words. Despite his open defiance of the power they represented, they honor him, speaking of his empathy, his foresight, his connection to the living Force. They may have disagreed, loudly and often, but it seems that in spite of it all he truly was their friend. But what you notice most, and what strikes you as deeply unnatural, is this:
Not a single tear is shed.
Finally, as Qui-Gon's body is lowered onto the pyre, Obi-Wan steps up to speak.
"Many of you know," he begins, "that the road that led me to Qui-Gon's side wasn't an easy one. Nor was the path I walked beside him. Even with the help of the Force, I often struggled to understand what was in his mind, or his heart. But in spite of all of that, or perhaps because of it…I'm a better man for having learned from him. Better than I could ever have imagined becoming as a boy in the Temple."
Obi-Wan stops, and breathes deep. But it's steady, with no sign of a tremor. He goes on.
"There will be more to learn on the road ahead, because there is always more to learn. And Qui-Gon won't be there to guide me anymore. But because of him, I feel ready for the lessons the future holds. That was his gift. And more than anything else…it is the gift of a true Jedi Master."
He bows his head and steps back. But before you do, you notice that in the light of his mentor's pyre, his eyes are shining and wet.
The ceremony goes on as the flames burn lower, with Padmé, Tchajah, Boss Nass, and others coming forward to pay their respects. The Council confers in hushed voices about the meaning of his death and the fate of the Jedi Order. And Obi-Wan comes to find you.
You swallow hard as you glance at the pyre. "What you said before, about being attached…"
"It's times like these when those principles are hardest to live by," he confesses. "But I meant every word. I could cling to my grief and let it destroy me, or I could fulfill Qui-Gon's last wish and honor his legacy…by passing it on to you."
You look up at him, daring to hope.
"You will become a Jedi, Anakin," says Obi-Wan Kenobi. "I swear it."
Once the fire has burned down to embers, Obi-Wan drapes a funeral shroud over Qui-Gon's mortal remains. The Naboo and Gungans leave in single file—but the Council stays, and so do you and Obi-Wan.
"Qui-Gon once said that every ending brings with it a new beginning in the Force," says Master Windu. "So it is today. Kneel, Padawan Kenobi."
Obi-Wan drops to one knee in front of him. Master Windu unclips his lightsaber—a severe-looking weapon with a black-ridged grip and highlights of golden electrum plating—and flicks it on, holding it at his side. You frown as you see that the blade is purple: known to the Amavikka as the color of wealth, power, and influence.
But for once, today that power is being wielded on behalf of an ally—perhaps even a friend. Master Windu raises his amethyst blade in a salute, then lowers it until it's poised above Obi-Wan's shoulder.
"By the right of the Council. By the will of the Force," he says, raising his lightsaber and then lowering it over Obi-Wan's other shoulder. He flicks the blade upward, severing the braid Obi-Wan has been wearing with a neat cut that doesn't even singe his hair. "Rise, Obi-Wan Kenobi…Jedi Knight."
Obi-Wan stands, and immediately turns to you. "Anakin Skywalker. Will you become my Padawan learner?"
You suspect there's usually more ceremony involved with this choice. You also suspect that Obi-Wan is choosing to forgo it on purpose. What matters most is not the formalities, but setting it in stone here and now, with the entire Jedi Council standing witness.
"I will," you say. "I'm ready."
He nods. And only then does he turn to the Council and bow.
No more words are spoken after that, and the Masters file out one by one, with you and Obi-Wan bringing up the rear. The shroud will lay in place for a mourning period, and then someone will return to collect Qui-Gon's ashes. But even knowing that he'll be memorialized with respect and care, you can't help but look back over your shoulder at the dais on which he lies.
Your brow furrows. From here, it almost looks as if the shroud is laying flat, with nothing underneath. But perhaps your eyes are just tricking you.
It's probably just shadows in the starlight.
**
The transport is almost ready to leave, to take you back to Coruscant and begin your life as a Jedi. But after everything that's happened, you decide to take a moment to rest.
You wander Theed Palace for a while until you find a suitable spot. You walk out onto a balcony—or rather, half of a balcony, its flowing balustrade blown off by a tank shell—and let your legs dangle over its charred edge as the people recover and begin to celebrate far below.
When you hear footsteps behind you a few minutes later, you don't have to turn around to know who it is.
"Not that I'm not happy to see you," you say, "but don't you have, uh, queenly things to do?"
"I trust Sabé to handle it for a few minutes," Padmé replies. "Even a Queen needs to breathe now and then."
She sits down next to you, leaning back on her hands against the scorched marble.
"I wish Qui-Gon could have been here to see this," you murmur, gesturing down at the victory celebrations below. "It couldn't have happened without him."
"People say that Jedi can see the future," Padmé points out. "I like to believe that he knew it would turn out all right. He certainly acted like he did."
"I guess he did," you say. "And now we get to know it too. To know that it's finally over."
"It's finally over," she repeats, savoring the words.
There's a long and peaceful silence.
"You know, it's funny," says Padmé after a while. "The N1 pilots have been talking about how one of their fighters made a daredevil run inside the droid control ship to take down the shield. But it didn't answer any comms. None of them know who was flying that ship."
You struggle mightily to keep the smirk off your face. "Wow. That is weird. Let me know if you ever find out who it was."
"Of course," she says amiably. "You'll be the first to know. By the way, was it more or less difficult than outflying a krayt dragon?"
There's a beat, and then the two of you dissolve into giggles.
It feels good to laugh like this: not with the exhilaration of battle, but with the simple joy of being alive. You haven't done it much in the past. Hopefully your future holds more.
"Really, though," says Padmé as the mood subsides. "I don't know how to thank you. My people and I owe you a debt we can never repay."
"Like I told Obi-Wan," you say, "you don't owe me anything. People like Nute Gunray and his minions have been kicking me around my whole life. I'm just glad I finally got the chance to hit them back." You glance at her coyly. "Oh, and, uh—speaking of hitting them back…"
Padmé giggles again for a moment, but then sighs. "It was such a small thing, but it just made me so angry that he was going to walk away with his dignity intact after everything he'd done. I'll probably regret it later, though."
"No, you won't," you deadpan.
She grins fiercely. "No. I won't."
Seeing Padmé like this—the way she is when she knows she's fighting for what's right and is proud of it—it's not hard to remember why you mistook her for an angel.
But remembering your first meeting also makes you realize something else. "I might not see you again after this, Padmé. Maybe not for a while…maybe not ever. Do you still have the japor snippet I gave you?"
She pulls up the sleeve of her maroon handmaiden's dress to show it to you, clipped to a bracelet high on her wrist. It doesn't bother you that she's been hiding it—quite the opposite. A secret should be carefully kept.
"If we don't meet again," you say, "keep it. And remember me."
Padmé smiles warmly at you, the same smile she gave you when she kept the cold of space away and you spoke of protecting the galaxy from evil. "Anakin, I'm no Jedi. But I sense this isn't the last we'll see of each other. And even if it is…I don't need this to remember you by."
And with that, she pulls you into a hug.
The night is the time of freedom. It is the time when a brighter future is closest at hand. And as you hold each other close and gaze out at the stars, you feel as if you could reach out and touch them.
END OF PART 1
ulture droids]] are isolating them and surrounding them
