Stories of Jedi and Sith Read online

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  ISBN 978-1-368-08054-5

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  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  INTRODUCTION

  WHAT A JEDI MAKES

  by Michael Kogge

  RESOLVE

  by Alex Segura

  THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER

  by Sarwat Chadda

  A JEDI’S DUTY

  by Karen Strong

  WORTHLESS

  by Delilah S. Dawson

  THE GHOSTS OF MAUL

  by Michael Moreci

  BLOOD MOON UPRISING

  by Vera Strange

  LUKE ON THE BRIGHT SIDE

  by Sam Maggs

  MASTERS

  by Tessa Gratton

  THROUGH THE TURBULENCE

  by Roseanne A. Brown

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  INTRODUCTION

  WHAT DOES IT MEAN TO BE GOOD? It’s one of life’s eternal questions, with many possible answers, and not one that can be resolved in this short introduction! But when I think about the effort to be a good person, the Jedi come to mind as an example of those who always at least try to be good. None of us are perfect, including the Jedi, but Jedi Knights give us an ideal to strive for. Whether it’s Luke standing tall and refusing to strike down his father, or Obi-Wan taking on a young Padawan because he thinks it’s the right thing to do, or Rey fighting against the evil of Palpatine, Star Wars provides us with plenty of heroes on the side of the light, doing everything they can to push back the darkness.

  But of course you can’t have that light without the darkness, or good without evil. And Star Wars has no shortage of memorable villains, too. From the demonic-looking Darth Maul to the twisted and vile Palpatine to the undeniably iconic Dark Lord of the Sith himself, Darth Vader, evil is always there for the Jedi to face in their fight for the light. (Then there are those like Asajj Ventress who live in the shadows between, reminding us that the definitions of “good” and “bad” are not always black-and-white!)

  I’m so pleased to present ten exciting original stories by a group of incredible authors, stories that explore what it is to be good, bad, and everything in between. There are some important questions asked here—What makes a Jedi? What does it mean to stand for justice? In a complicated galaxy, what’s really the right thing to do?—but there’s also thrilling action, adventure, and humor, in timeless Star Wars stories that feel like they’ve jumped straight off a movie screen. So enjoy—and choose your side!

  —Jennifer Heddle

  A long time ago in a galaxy far,

  far away….

  WHAT A JEDI MAKES

  MICHAEL KOGGE

  THE TEMPLE LOOMED AHEAD, pink in the dawn, just as it had in the boy’s dreams.

  It was a massive structure of stone, with a trapezoidal body on a rectangular base. Five towers crowned its flat top, four on each corner, with the fifth and tallest rising from the center. According to legend it had been erected on the summit of a mountain when mountains still dominated the planet’s terrain. After millennia of expansion, the Temple itself was the only mountain in this district of the city, drawing the eye from every direction.

  Yet what lay within could not be glimpsed from without. Few viewports penetrated the Temple’s sloped sides. The stained-glass windows along its front arcade permitted only light to pass, not curious glances. Occasionally a robed figure could be observed on a tower balcony, but these silhouettes revealed little.

  This was not to say the residents of the Temple were reclusive. They were in fact some of the most recognizable individuals in the Republic, members of a mystical fellowship of warriors, healers, diplomats, and thinkers graced with extraordinary powers of mind and muscle. Rather than using their gifts for selfish gain, they had pledged their lives to defend peace and justice in an ever-perilous galaxy. Yet how they attained their astonishing abilities remained mostly a mystery. Out of the trillions of beings in the galaxy, only a select few were permitted to master the secrets taught inside the Temple.

  The boy would soon join that small number. He would gain admittance to the Temple and learn the truth about what was called the Force. He would become that which he had always dreamed of being.

  A Jedi.

  As he approached the Temple, the boy stuck to the shadows wherever he could, skirting down alleys and skipping across roofs, avoiding skybridges and crawling along pipelines. Someone like him was unwelcome on the upper levels of Coruscant. Unlike the wealthy who lived on the city planet’s surface and could afford the best in fashion, he was dressed in rags and smelled of sewage. His feet were bare and dirty, and his hair was patchy, cut by a rough blade. Filth was indistinguishable from the freckles on his face, and what flesh of his that could be seen under the grime was pale, rarely exposed to the sun. Though he was biologically human, few of his fellow species would regard him as such. He was of a class of beings that society shunned.

  The boy was an orphan from the undercity.

  Supreme Chancellor Lina Soh liked to say, “We are all the Republic,” but in reality there were many who remained on society’s fringes despite Soh’s best efforts to eliminate old prejudices. Rich surface dwellers on Coruscant still feared outcasts like the boy would infect their districts with disease, poverty, and crime. If he was caught wandering about, he’d be branded a pickpocket and sent back down into the slums. No one would shed a tear at his disappearance.

  His lowborn background would not matter to the Jedi, however. In all the datafiles he’d read, the newsvids he’d watched, the stories he’d heard, the Jedi respected beings from all walks of life. The diversity of their ranks reflected this openness. Some of the greatest Knights had been nobles, others nobodies. A few had once been enslaved. A street kid like him would be in good company.

  The boy bolted past a block of government buildings and arrived at Processional Way, the main boulevard that led to the Temple. There was nowhere to hide, no shadows or nooks, but he was not worried. Usually the avenue was flooded with all manner of people—Jedi, bureaucrats, activists, and tourists—but at this early hour, not even the trinket peddlers had arrived to set up their stalls. The boy was alone, and happily so, holding his head high as he strode toward the Temple. Destiny and destination were one and the same, so said the old Masters.

  “Halt!”

  A girl in sand-colored robes dashed toward him. She appeared to be an indeterminate mix of species, with both skull spines and head-tails poking out from shoulder-length nut-brown hair. Her gold eyes dazzled and her emerald skin glinted in the morning light. She was both beautiful and fierce, and he stopped at her command.

  “Drop your weapons, Ganzee goon, and don’t move,” she said, igniting a blue-bladed lightsaber.

  The boy opened his hands. “I don’t have any weapons. And I’m not Ganzee, I swear.” The Ganzee were a notorious criminal gang from the undercity who recruited orphans like him to do their dirty work. He had eluded all their attempts to lure him, going so far as to hide
in the gutters whenever he spotted them.

  “But you look like Ganzee, smell like Ganzee, too.” The girl’s face puckered and she fanned the air. “Stars save me, do you bathe with banthas?”

  The boy wanted to remark that her scent of cleansing chemicals smelled equally unpleasant, but he kept that to himself. “I’ve never seen a bantha, actually. I’m from level thirteen-twelve of the undercity. I’ve come to train as a Jedi.”

  She seemed perplexed. “There was no mention of a new arrival. Which Master sent for you?”

  “I came by myself.”

  She snorted. “This must be some kind of prank. Something Master Elzar put you up to. To fool me, get me off my game. Because no one just walks up to the Temple and demands to be trained.”

  “I’m not here to fool anyone or demand anything,” the boy said. “Coming here’s more like…a dream I’ve always had. I’ve even brought documentation to show I make a good candidate.”

  “Documentation?”

  “Blood tests. They have my midi-chlorian count.” The boy pulled out a flimsi from his rags. During his research, he’d discovered that the Jedi often examined a candidate’s blood for microscopic organisms they called midi-chlorians. The greater the number, the stronger a candidate’s suitability to join the Order. Anticipating the Jedi would request a count, the boy had paid an Ortolan bloodletter to perform a test. He proudly pointed out the results to the girl. “As you can see, my count is high.”

  The girl only glanced at it. “No Master with any common sense cares about blood tests. When they search for younglings, they need proof of talent, not…paperwork.”

  Her criticism didn’t worry him. He was ready for such a request. “Of course,” he said. “How’s this?”

  Pocketing the flimsi, he inhaled, then did what he’d practiced so long in the sewers. He jumped up as high as he could, folded his knees to his chest, and executed a somersault in midair like he saw Jedi do in holovids. Coming down, he botched the landing with a misstep but quickly recovered and smiled.

  The girl shrugged. “Any acrobat could do that. What the Masters seek is an ability to do things that ordinary beings cannot. And anyways, they’ll say you’re too old.”

  “Too old? How old are you?”

  “Fourteen standard years.”

  “Same as me,” the boy said. “Why should that make a difference?”

  “Because I was brought to the Temple when I was an infant. You’re too old to start training.”

  Her attitude was beginning to annoy him. “Can’t you talk to the Masters for me? I can show them I’m ready.”

  “It’s not my place to do that. I’m only an Initiate. A Master hasn’t even chosen me as a Padawan yet.”

  “So let me do it,” the boy said. “Who do I talk to?”

  The girl deactivated her blade. “Look, I’m investigating a dire threat and should alert security if I find anyone suspicious. You seem like a nice kid, so I won’t. But I advise you leave before the police and Temple Guards make their sweep.” She checked her wrist chrono. “Which should be any moment now. Good luck.”

  The girl offered a brief—and to him, false—smile and then spun away. With a few running leaps, she was off.

  The boy stood alone in a state of shock. He’d expected tough questions, even an entrance exam, but never a flat-out refusal, especially from someone his own age. This was most definitely never a part of his dreams.

  Then he heard a strange melody being hummed at the edge of the boulevard, where rows of flowers bloomed. The boy walked over to see.

  A small figure dressed in the Jedi’s gold-and-white Temple robes was watering the plants. A gnarled hand held a curved walking stick, and long pointy ears protruded from a round head that was wisped with white hair. The boy could identify all the members of the Jedi Council, and there was only one Jedi this could be.

  “Master Yoda?”

  The figure stopped humming and shifted toward the boy. Yes, it had to be him. No Jedi was so wrinkled with age. Or so small and green. Or had such tiny sharp teeth, which he showed in a mischievous grin.

  The boy stepped forward. “Master Yoda, I—”

  In the sky above screamed a triple-finned airspeeder, with lights strobing atop the cockpit. A voice boomed from an external comm. “This is the Temple District Police. We are looking for suspects in a criminal matter. Remain there for questioning. A holding ray will be deployed if necessary.”

  The boy did not doubt what would happen to him if he obeyed. The police would never believe that he came to train. They’d say he came to steal.

  He turned and ran.

  His acrobatics proved lifesaving. He ducked and dodged the ray aimed at him. It captured flowers instead, causing Yoda to shake his fist at the sky.

  The boy fled into the city. He was safe, but his dream was in danger. Now he was wanted.

  Hours later, the boy huddled behind an upscale eatery. The smart thing to do would be to get far away from this district. The police knew what he looked like and would be searching for him. If they nabbed him, his punishment would be far more severe than a one-way ticket back to the lower levels.

  But he wasn’t leaving. Not after what had happened at the Temple. One of the greatest Jedi of this age had smiled—at him. An orphan from the undercity. A nobody.

  This acknowledgment could mean nothing, of course. But he was going to find out. He would try again.

  This time he would dress the part.

  He crouched under a water spigot and washed off as much grime as he could. Then he gathered clothing for his new outfit. He grabbed trousers from the basket of a laundry droid. Pulled a tunic from a charity bin. Fashioned a utility belt from a discarded loop of comm cable. Swiped a pair of black boots from the front door of a luxury apartment, stuffing the toes with crumpled napkins to ensure a proper fit. For the most visible article of his wardrobe, he snuck into a costume shop and took a brown robe intended for masquerade balls.

  He dressed himself in his new clothes, leaving on his rags as undergarments. A check of his reflection in an airspeeder window showed that he was close to looking convincing.

  He was just missing one major detail.

  At a construction site, he collected a set of tools that included a plasma torch. He braved a public refresher and unscrewed the drainpipe from the sink. In a scrap yard, he yanked an activation button from a YT-series dashboard and a lens dish from a sensor array. Last but not least, he snagged magnetic couplers from the chargers at a refueling station.

  Having retrieved what he needed, he retired to a dark corner of a speeder garage. Within a few hours, he manufactured something out of the parts that resembled a Jedi lightsaber.

  It was far from the real thing and should never be used as an actual weapon. The blue plasma beam that blazed from the drainpipe was erratic, unable to hold together for long before fizzling out. But a few seconds of stability was better than none, and the beam’s low power meant he wouldn’t accidentally chop off his own arm if he mishandled the device.

  After a bit of tinkering with the magnetic couplers, he hung the lightsaber hilt off his belt, adjusted his robes, and departed the speeder garage. Now for the final test.

  He went out into the midday streets. At first he stayed clear of any crowds. But when no one gave him a second glance, he grew confident that his disguise was working and walked more freely among the pedestrians.

  Then came the police cruiser.

  It was the same triple-fin that had harassed him at the Temple. Swerving in traffic, it dropped from the skylanes to hover beside him. A pane on its canopy opened.

  “Hey, Padawan,” chirped the pilot inside, an orange-scaled Kadrillian in a police uniform that accommodated his terrapin half shell. “Looking for a human youngling ’bout your age, dirty under-dweller type. Think he’s related to the Ganzee Gang. Word is they’re about to try something. Don’t know what. Seen anyone like that sneaking around?”

  The boy shook his head, scanning for the n
earest alley to book down if necessary. There was nothing within fifty meters.

  “Well, let me know if you do.” The officer leaned his head out of the window. “Say, I don’t think we’ve met before. I’m Detective Tals Trilby, Temple District Police. What’s your name?”

  It was a question the boy hadn’t been asked in years. Fortunately, chatter on the officer’s comm saved him from having to respond.

  “Shoot—can’t chat, gotta run. Some theft at Three-Yees Costume Shop,” Trilby said. “But keep an eye out for anything suspicious. ’Cause my wise old breakfast pal says you Jedi younglings see things others don’t.” The pane closed, and the airspeeder zoomed away.

  The boy sighed in relief. He also felt something he’d rarely felt before.

  Respect.

  So that was what it was to be a Jedi. The cops came to you for help.

  For the rest of the afternoon, he roamed the city blocks around the Temple, waiting for the right opportunity to return.

  It occurred when a group of Jedi younglings, some years his junior, were led past by an older chaperone. Among the younglings were humans, snaggle-toothed Snivvians, star-shaped Conjeni, respirator-wearing Gand, and trunk-nosed Kubaz. Most wore Jedi robes, though a handful were dripping wet in swimsuits, their clothes folded under their arms. They must have had an outing at a local pool. The day was a scorcher. Heat rose from the pavement and hoods were worn as shade.

  The boy followed the group, pulling his own hood up. The younglings were so rambunctious and the chaperone so busy wrangling them that no one noticed him tagging along. It was just as well, because the chaperone was the girl who had stopped him at dawn.

  As they neared the Temple, the boy sensed others were trailing the group. His awareness was nothing like what the Jedi possessed, but rather an instinct he’d developed to survive in the undercity. Glances over his shoulder, however, revealed only pedestrians hurrying through the day’s shimmering heat. No one appeared suspicious.

  Still, the feeling did not leave him.

  Once the group came to Processional Way, the girl snapped her fingers and the younglings quieted and fell into a straight line. The boy brought up the rear.