TITLE: Joint Strength
AUTHOR: Rene (padawan30@hotmail.com)
RATING: PG
Notes: See Part One
SPOILERS: "Jedi Apprentice" novel 1, 2 & 3
Summary of this part: Qui-Gon and Molu continue onward; Bant considers her
heritage; Obi-Wan takes steps.
Disclaimer: Just for amusement; no monies earned.
Feedback: Yes, absolutely!
They dove through the whirling well of hyperspace like a waterbeast
through deep ocean, but neither Qui-Gon nor Molu took pleasure in their
graceful flight. Molu glanced repeatedly at the Jedi, growing concern
darkening his eyes, until finally he could bear the suspense no longer, and
asked, “Is it bad?”
“What?” The question retrieved Qui-Gon from far away, and he glanced over at his companion with a slightly puzzled expression. “I’m sorry. . .?”
“Is it bad?’ At his feet, the _sinna_ stirred in its sleep, its sensitive mind disturbed by the tension in the general’s voice.
Qui-Gon shook his head, a smile emerging despite the gravity of his thoughts. “I’m afraid I don’t have the slightest idea what you mean, my friend.”
Molu did not return the smile. “I thought you must be . . .receiving a bad feeling, from your young protégé.” He jerked his chin downward, toward Qui-Gon’s leg. “You keep rubbing your knee.”
Startled, Qui-Gon looked down to find his hand doing just that, almost of its own volition. He concentrated then, attempting to isolate and categorize his impressions of the last few hours. He hadn’t felt further waves of stark fear, but any focus on Obi-Wan brought at once roiling currents of conflict, too scattered to pin down, but real enough to give solidity to the ghostly worry haunting his heart.
Now, with Molu’s comment, he realized that the constant undertow in the emotional river was pain. He’d been receiving impressions of physical pain for some time. Obi-Wan’s pain.
His jaw tight as carbon rope, he stared down at his hand, stopping its incessant rubbing with sheer will. Slowly, he said, “I think it is bad, General. Bad, indeed.”
As if signaled, both men looked over at the trip-chronometer mounted on the cockpit’s right wall. Its readout showed a cascade of numbers streaming rapidly downward, but not quickly enough to satisfy either of the watchers.
Four hours to Coruscant.
* * * * *
The Mon Calamari are a species famed for courage and extreme valor in the
heat of battle. They are cool-headed, loyal, and occasionally blessed with
a scathing gallows humor that illuminates the blackest moments.
Sitting confined in the darkness, Bant considered her heritage, and wished mightily that a large dose of Calamarian legend could be injected into her veins. She felt neither courageous, nor cool, nor humorous. She did feel loyal, but she wasn’t sure how far that was going to carry her.
Not very, she thought, disconsolately lifting one elbow to ease the pressure on her bound wrists. What I really need right now is some heavy-duty valor.
She lost herself briefly in a pleasant vision, seeing Warrior Bant snapping her bonds as if they were silken threads and striding forth to wreak havoc on the evildoer who had bound her here. But the darkness around her pressed in, smothering the vision before it had much chance to grow, and she soon found her mind reliving the events of the past few hours: a strong impression of Obi-Wan in danger, following the impression down, down, down. Stepping through a door, a brief glimpse of a robed figure, recognizable at once as the same one she had seen earlier that day while trailing after Bruck. Her mouth opening to speak, her eyes suddenly noting the small blaster that appeared out of nowhere in the other’s hand. A surge of adrenaline, her own hand stretching out to snatch it with the Force. . .
A burst of light. And then nothingness.
From the stiffness in her body, she assumed it had been a long period of nothingness. She’d awakened to find herself tightly bound, in an utterly dark room. She had no sense of time or location, despite casting about rather desperately with the Force. A Knight would have been able to sense something of her surroundings, to “see” the situation. A Knight could have loosened the tight binders on her wrists with a moment of concentration. But Bant was a young student of the Force, and those skills had yet to be perfected in her.
A chill settled over her heart.
The door slid aside abruptly, letting a rectangle of painful light into the blackness. Bant jerked her head away from it, involuntarily closing her eyes against the light’s sudden assault. When she forced them open, just a slit, she saw a dark form walk forward to stand in front of her. She had a distinct feeling of being gazed down upon.
Valor, she reminded herself. With stiff movements quite unlike her usual grace, she struggled to her feet, and lifted her chin to stare her enemy in the eye.
The Mon Calamari do not like to be looked down on.
“Very impressive, little girl,” a smooth voice said. “But you could have remained seated. I don’t require anyone to rise in my presence.”
“I’m sure you don’t,” Bant replied, her eyes searching the depths of the hooded face before her. “I stand for myself, not for your honor.”
A soft chuckle issued from the hood. Bant’s mouth tightened as she continued, “Not for your amusement, either.”
“Whatever suits you. I’m actually more interested in your identity. I need to send someone a message, and I’d like to make it more friendly by including your name.”
Bant forced a smile, though she had never felt less like smiling. “Obi-Wan’s not such a fool as that. He would never believe a false message.”
The shadowed head cocked to one side, and hidden eyes regarded her. “Why are you so sure I’m interested in Kenobi.?”
Bant looked away. “And I’m not such a fool as to give you my name.”
Somehow she knew that a cruel smile curved under the hood. “I didn’t ask you to give it, did I? I have other ways of getting what I need.”
* * * * *
The stunned silence following Bruck’s pronouncement imploded into
furious words. Garen and Reeft both rounded on him, speaking at the same
time, with the same loud volume.
“That is pure Sith. . .when did you see him? Where? What was he doing?”
“He wouldn’t just leave the Temple!”
“You’re lying!”
“Wait.” Once again, A’ali’s gentle voice somehow cut the babble like a saber. Her eyes rested measuringly on Bruck, but she spoke to the two others. “It’s a grave matter, to call someone untruthful. I advise caution.”
A small spark of triumph animated Bruck’s eyes, and then was quickly snuffed as she added, “Since we are all obviously concerned about your friend, perhaps we should work together to locate him.”
She turned to Bruck, and continued, “You saw him leave?”
Face tight, Bruck nodded.
“Out of which exit?”
A barely noticeable pause. “The south garden doors.”
A’ali frowned. “I see. And did you notice which way he turned as he went out?”
Bruck shook his head decisively. “Not at all.”
A small silence settled over them. Garen and Reeft stared at A’ali, both of them vibrating with impatience and frustration. Finally, she said, musingly, “There is a wrongness here. It could be that I am feeling only your concern for your friend. . .”
She looked away from them for a moment, brow creased with thought, and then squared her shoulders in sudden decision. “Whatever the situation, it seems best that Obi-Wan be found, and we four will devote ourselves to that. Agreed?”
Garen and Reeft nodded, their eyes turning at once to Bruck. But he was nodding too, his face a picture of eager dutifulness, and both of the other boys scowled at him.
A’ali noticed this, but said nothing of it. Instead she directed them to follow her. They left Obi-Wan’s chamber and strode through the busy halls and out the south garden doors, where A’ali gathered them around her. The southern face of the Temple reared above them like a monumental cliff.
“We’ll search the grounds first, before we consider the possibility that he’s left the Temple compound entirely. I’ll take the south garden. Bruck. . .”
“I’ll search the River trails.” Bruck interrupted quickly.
A’ali paused for a moment, studying him, and then nodded. “Very well.”
She turned to Garen and Reeft, “One of you take the north garden, and the other the hanger and outer support buildings. We’ll all meet back here in two hours, unless one of us finds him and signals the others.” She tapped her comlink.
Murmurs of agreement emerged from the three boys, and they separated, Bruck jogging with alacrity toward the River trails, and Garen and Reeft walking around the corner to the north, talking together in voices low and urgent. A’ali watched them all go, and then, shifting her lightsaber to a more comfortable position at her hip, she strode with a warrior’s grace onto the main garden path before her, and disappeared among the trees.
Many minutes passed, disturbed only by the calls of citified songbirds, calls that abruptly ceased as a dark figure moved out from behind a small copse of kejaberry bushes. Glancing furtively about, Bruck hurried across the open green and re-entered the Temple.
* * * * *
Obi-Wan clenched his teeth, willing the bacta gel to work just a little
faster. Above his tight jaw, his eyes shifted repeatedly to the tiny room’s
door, barely discernible in the dim light. The hum of a TSD’s motivator
approached, pausing on the other side of the door, and Obi-Wan felt every
muscle tense, but the sound dopplered away. He forced himself to relax,
recalling a vague memory of someone. . .Reeft, maybe?. . .telling him that
tension hindered the bacta’s efficiency.
He grimaced.
If there’s one thing I need, he thought, it’s efficient bacta.
A wave of impatience encompassed him. He could almost feel the minutes crawling over him, like a line of marching insects. How long had he been in here, anyway? It must have taken him more than an hour to slowly haul himself along the ventilation shaft up one floor and over at least four halls, expecting every moment to be overtaken. He had counted the vent covers, promising himself he would continue past ten, but by the seventh the pain in his knee was too excruciating to continue. Pushing the seventh cover open and gingerly levering himself out, he had wondered how to get down to the floor without inflicting further damage. In the end, he had simply let himself fall, taking the impact mostly on his good leg.
Mostly.
And then only one thought had possessed him. Bacta.
But procuring a tube of healing gel was no simple task, because, usually, bacta gel was applied by a medic droid, and Obi-Wan knew that any medic droid would routinely access his records, discover that he had already been treated for this same injury less than 24 hours previously, and immediately report the situation to the Jedi Healer on duty in the infirmary. And the Healer would most certainly want to know how Obi-Wan had reinjured his knee so severely. That was a story Obi-Wan didn’t want to tell.
He had stirred uneasily, unsure why he remained convinced that silence and solitude were the best defense to Xanatos’ scheme, whatever it was. But his enemy’s reaction to his desperate taunt had strengthened his resolve. No matter what he did, Obi-Wan refused to be a simmycat tamely following where Xanatos led.
All right, then, so how to get the bacta without being seen? This had involved a stealthy, painful stint in a storage compartment opposite the infirmary, waiting until the room appeared clear of droids and Healers. Then, a dash--well, really several panicked hops--into the infirmary, a desperate grab at a gel tube lying on a supply cart, and another fast hop back into the storage room, his breath coming in pained gasps. And here, in the tiny compartment, he had collapsed. Removing his boot had produced such stabbing pain in the knee that he had turned his chin into his shoulder and bit down hard on his tunic to keep from making any sound. The knee’s swollen, discolored surface had made him swallow, slightly sickened. After treating the knee, he had been mildly surprised to discover a long bleeding scrape along his thigh, which he attributed, after a moment, to a vague memory of the shaft’s uneven lip tearing at his clothing. He hadn’t even noticed the scrape until now.
So he had applied the gel to that, too, and then settled down to wait for some healing to occur.
He felt as if he had been waiting for hours. I ought to help it along, he thought. Focus the Force on it.
But any attempt to concentrate degenerated almost immediately into a series of unsteady thoughts, endlessly repeating in an infinite loop that circled the chambers of his heart.
He said Master Qui-Gon was dead.
He’s lying!
But what if it’s true?
No! I’d have known, I’d have felt it if. . . He said Master Qui-Gon was dead.
He was almost grateful to the TSD for distracting him. As the hum of its motor faded, he wrenched his mind away from the its vicious spinning and forced it to consider his next move. If he was determined to keep silent about Xanatos’ presence, then only two options remained. He could either ignore his enemy and let him do his will down there. Or he could go back down and stop him. He stared down at his blood-stained leg and swollen knee, watching a drip of greenish gel ooze slowly down his shin. Confronting Xanatos again didn’t seem like a very viable course of action, but neither was sitting here in a storage compartment doing nothing.
Master Qui-Gon, he thought suddenly, fiercely. You had better not be dead. I don’t know what I should do. I don’t know what action to take. I need to be _trained_.
A wry smile creased his face at the futility of this silent plea. But even as he dismissed his own whimsy, another wishful thought possessed him and refused to be dismissed.
Maybe Master Qui-Gon has sent a message. I haven’t been at my room all day. There could be a message on my ‘pad.
Sternly, he told himself that this was a forlorn hope, born of pain and exhaustion and the insidious tendrils of worry burying themselves ever deeper in his spirit. But his heart rejected the cool logic of his mind with a passionate cry: there _could_ be a message, I just want to check!
In a very deep corner of his heart, a small voice said, I just want to be sure he’s not dead.
He shoved his boot back on quickly, before his mind had time to consider the pain this might cause. Gingerly, with exaggerated care, he climbed to his feet, resting all his weight on the uninjured leg. Eyes fixed grimly on the door in front of him, he took a deep breath and stepped forward. A shaft of pain speared upward from the knee, but it held. Two more steps took him out the door, where, after a quick glance up and down to be certain the way was clear, he steered his way toward his chamber. It was impossible to avoid other students, but he strode forward without hesitation, forcing himself not to limp. He saw several curious glances slide downward to his bloodstained trouser leg, but he ignored them, silently thankful that he met none of his friends in the halls. When he arrived at his chamber, he keyed it open and stepped inside with one quick motion, and then leaned back on the door after it swished closed behind him.
A sense of wild relief possessed him as he gazed at the barren walls of his old, familiar chamber, but he knew it was a spurious feeling, not to be trusted. His situation was not a whit different now than it had been over in the storage compartment. It was just encased in more comfortable surroundings.
Now that he was here, he was almost reluctant to actually look at the datapad. Slowly, he walked to his worktable and lifted it off a lower shelf. His heart lurched raggedly as his eyes registered the rapidly blinking yellow light that signified stored messages. Eyes glittering with hope, he activated the message-retrieval.
“You have five messages,” the ‘pad intoned. “Proceed?”
“Yes!”
“Message one: timecode 0950. Sender: Wol G’Det. Message: Hey Obi-Wan! Are you really back? What happened. . .”
“Next,” Obi-Wan interrupted.
“Message two: timecode 1125. Sender: Garen Mulft. Message: Obi-Wan, do you want to drill with us this afternoon? Send me a ‘pad message if you do.”
“Next.”
“Message three: timecode 1243. Sender: A’ali Cek. Message: Good afternoon, Obi-Wan Kenobi. At your convenience this afternoon, the Council members would like to speak with you. Please respond as soon as possible.”
Obi-Wan felt his throat clench with apprehension. The Council! Had they heard about his fight with Bruck yesterday? Were they sending him on some other agricultural exile?
Impatiently he shook his head, ruthlessly flinging yesterday’s fears away. I can’t think about that right now, he thought grimly. One small part of his mind demanded that he answer the Council’s summons at once, but the rest of him resolutely turned away from it. He cleared his throat and said firmly, “Next.”
“Message four: timecode 1311. Sender: Medic Droid 4-TX. Message: Records indicate that you were treated yesterday for a knee injury. You are reminded that the progress of your healing should be checked by medical personnel sometime in the next 24 hours.”
Obi-Wan smiled. Right. If they only knew. “Next.”
“Message five: timecode 1856. Sender: An old friend.”
What? Obi-Wan thought.
“Message: Hello, little Padawan.”
A cold foreboding seized him. Xanatos’ voice poured unimpeded from the ‘pad’s tiny voder.
“I’m pleased to have made the acquaintance of a charming friend of yours, one Bant Eerin. I’m afraid she isn’t as pleased to have met me, but then, she was really expecting to find you down here, so her disappointment is understandable. Misguided, but understandable.. So I suggest you hurry right back down here and cheer your friend up. We await you impatiently.”
His knuckles grew white as he clenched the datapad, eyes bleak. With an incoherent exclamation, he flung the ‘pad onto his sleepcouch, and his hand went to his lightsaber as if it were a talisman, his thumb stroking it.
Xanatos, he thought. You _will_ let her go. You want me to come? I’m coming!
But that furious thought jolted him with its inconsistency. He stopped before the door and rested his clenched fists against it, considering what he knew of Xanatos and his methods.
Why would he want me to come, when he’s spent all this effort trying to get me to go, to approach the Council and tell them he’s here? Why? Why send me a message like that? He’s trying to make me angry, to make me scared for her.
Almost unconsciously, he nodded, leaning forward to rest his brow on his fists.
Yes, he thought. That’s it. He knows I’m injured. He knows I can’t really fight him, and he knows that _I_ know that. It’s the same thing as before. He wants me to run to the Council, shouting about Bant, shouting for help, and then they know he’s here and his purpose is accomplished.
He straightened, his heart beating wildly. The deepest part of his spirit was convinced of the truth of his reasoning, but his logical mind was muttering and shuffling, and finally saying outright, what if you’re wrong about this, Obi-Wan?
With a heroic effort, he ignored the siren call of logic.
And began to form a plan of attack.
* * * * *
In a sleek little ship hurtling toward Coruscant, a Jedi Master’s hand
strayed to his knee, rubbing it absently. Steely, abstracted eyes glanced
over at the chronometer.
Three hours to go.
TBC
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