PART FOUR:
Qui-Gon closed his eyes. His arms were screaming at him in pain for the merciless way he was treating them. Stoically ignoring them, he forced the injured limbs to move, miming the motion of lifting his side of a large, twisted sheet of plexi- steel. The man carrying the other side of the piece had no idea that his companion suffered from two broken arms. Had no idea that Qui-Gon lifted, not with his arms, but with his mind, through the Force.
Qui-Gon mimed with his body the actions it was not capable to carry out, and did the rest through the Force. It was the only way he could function, but it was wearing him steadily down. In reality, his arms could bear no weight. Just the movement made them hurt so bad that it could almost disrupt even the Jedi Master's concentration, but he did not let it. He *dare* not let it. Or he would be killed, and he would not abandon Obi-Wan like that. No matter what he had to do, he was going to get back to his apprentice. They were going to get out of this. Somehow...
*"Your focus determines your reality,"* he told himself, closing off the pain, pushing past it. He knew that to heal he needed to accept the pain and welcome it as the indication that it was, but that was a luxury he could not allow himself right now. The pain was too overwhelming. To accept it would immobilize him, and he could not afford that. For now, he just had to keep shutting it out. Qui-Gon winced as they put the twisted piece of the wreck down and it scraped slightly against his wrists, pulling against his broken bones. Even shutting it out was not entirely possible.
Qui-Gon realized that as much as Obi-Wan had needed him, he had needed Obi-Wan. This could not go on. As much as he would like to believe otherwise, a part of him knew that he could not keep this charade up on his own indefinitely.
The special detail had been assembled to clear away the twisted, burned-out wreck of an exploded supply transport that was blocking the tracks. The transport had been blown up while entering a station, and so the mangled hulk of the building hung over the hapless prisoners as they worked, making the task hazardous as well as grueling. Every now and then some part of the ruined station would fall, or collapse down, sending the prison laborers scattering in all directions until the guards forced them back with their blasters, whips and electro-jabbers.
Sweat from the exertion and the warm day beaded on Qui-Gon's brow and stung his eyes, but he couldn't wipe it away, he was already stretching the limits of how much movement he could coax from his injured body.
Verjl Owskar swiped a hand across his brow, pushing his
tightly curling raven hair back under the carefully polished
brim of his hat. The day was unmercifully hot, as if the sun
was determined to scorch the land as a punishment for its
bloodthirsty government's many sins.
All around Verjl, prison workers slaved away under the punishment of the intense heat and the merciless guards. They crawled over and through the remains of the transport wreck like so many ants, forced to attempt preposterously heavy loads that should have been left for the automated strength of mechanicals. Verjl kept his hands clasped tightly behind his back and his jaw firmly set so that his escorts had no indication of just what he thought of them, their wretched death camps and the whole blasted Drojan party.
"As you see Administrator Owskar, this explosion was a deliberate attempt to slow down our supply and munitions lines by treacherous insurgents, but you may assure his Excellency that the guilty parties have been apprehended and dealt with,"
Verjl's lips tightened a little. He could just imagine how they had been dealt with. Of course, they had been fools for attempting it in the first place.
"... and everything is being done to insure a speedy return to schedule," the camp Head-Warden informed Verjl confidently.
"If everything is being done, then why are the prisoners doing this work?" he asked calmly, stepping carefully through the piles of debris near the partially decimated wall of station. "Would it not be faster to employ droids to remove this rubble?"
"Perhaps so Sir, but as you know, his Excellency requires all new droids that are bought or manufactured be for fighting and there just aren't enough of the old ones to go around to risk them on a project like this. Besides," the Head-Warden shrugged. "Slaves are much more replaceable. What they lack in skill and strength, we make up for with numbers. We will have this clear with in the next three days. His Excellency has nothing to worry about."
Verjl nodded clippedly. As Second Administrator to his Supreme Excellency the Krallnorn, Leader of the entire Drojan party, he was used to people trying to curry favor with him. Little did they know how much their words and assurances had just the opposite effect on him. He wasn't really surprised. Verjl already knew that the Krallnorn put little value on life, except perhaps his own. Still, to hear the Head-Warden actually *say* that these people's lives were worth less than a collection of parts and bolts touched a cord in the Administrator's buried conscience. If only they knew what he *really* thought of them... Verjl dismissed the suicidal thought. It was the way things were, at least, for now.
"Hey, you," the Head-Warden snapped at a middle-aged man who momentarily blocked their path with the large gear strut he was dragging. The man looked up. Verjl took in the prisoner without much interest, glancing swiftly over his strong features and long brown hair, which was slowly working it's way out of the ponytail it was pulled back in and hung in loose strands about his face. However, when his gaze flittered over the man's eyes, they stopped. There was something in those intense blue eyes that he didn't know how to describe, but it was definitely not what he had expected. He knew from experience that prisoners in these camps usually wore one of two expressions, angry, or hopeless, but he saw neither in this man. Intriguing.
"Watch where you're going fool!" The Head-Warden shoved the inmate.
The tall prisoner stumbled sideways, but did not fall. One of the guards clouted him between the shoulder blades with the butt of their blaster-rifle in a strong command to keep moving. The man grimaced. Paling a shade, he stumbled forward, this time falling to his knees. The guard raised his weapon to club the prisoner again, but Verjl moved between them, raising his hand in cold disgust. "The heat is miserable out here, must we prolong this? It would have been quicker if you just let him pass by," he said in haughty disdain.
"Apologies, Administrator," the Head-Warden looked chagrined at having in anyway displeased his distinguished guest. "Get out of here scum!" he added, half under his breath, in Qui- Gon's direction.
The Jedi was gathering himself up to move on, when an alarmed look crossed his face his as his keen senses caught a sudden warning. "Move!" he shouted quickly.
An instant later, there was a horrendous screeching sound from above them and Verjl looked up just in time to see a huge section of the station wall tear loose from the steel girders that it had been dangling from and fall down, straight towards them.
The little knot of men seemed heedless of Qui-Gon's warning, frozen in horror.
Qui-Gon however, had no intention of being crushed. He leapt to his feet and jumped out of the way, throwing himself against the man nearest to him, and, almost without thinking, pushing him clear too.
Carried backward by the prisoner's lunge, Verjl found himself flying backward as the wall crashed down. Hitting the rubble with a breath-stealing jolt the two men rolled down the steeply sloped incline to their right. They ended in a heap at the bottom, bruised and cut from the sharp debris they had scraped across, but alive. That was more than could be said for the Head-Warden and the two guards.
As the dust cleared, Qui-Gon sat up slowly. This last bit of strain and jarring had been a little too much for his injured arms. His face was pale as a wraith and his jaw was clenched tightly, but he gave no other indication of the incredible pain that was making his vision swim.
Verjl wiped blood and dust out of his eyes and pulled himself to his knees. His heart was racing and he couldn't believe he was still alive. He looked at the prisoner that had saved his life. The fellow did not look too good, yet he was on his feet first anyway.
"Come on," Qui-Gon said, his voice a trifle thick despite his best efforts. He started to climb up the embankment they had just rolled down. "We've got to see if we can get your companions out." The Jedi Master doubted that they were still alive, although his own pain was taking too much of his attention for him to scan the rubble to be sure. At least they should try...
"They're dead," Verjl said dispassionately, getting up and dusting off the front of his formerly spotless uniform. It did him little good however, the dust clung to him and the sharp rubble had cut both he and his clothing, leaving the olive- green uniform torn and bloodstained. "And you should be glad they are."
"No," Qui-Gon shook his head, surprising Verjl for the second time that day. "Wasted life never makes one glad." "Is that why you saved me?" the Administrator asked as some of the guards hurriedly formed groups of slaves to start trying to dig the Head-Warden and his guards out, although Qui-Gon suspected that Verjl was right and they were dead. "Because it would have been a waste of life?"
Qui-Gon considered for a moment. "I suppose," he said thoughtfully. "In all honestly, Administrator I would have to admit that I did not think very much about it," Qui-Gon said truthfully, referring to Verjl by the title he had heard the Head-Warden use. "There was hardly time to philosophize." Qui- Gon leaned back a little, looking to the wall of debris for support as the swimming in his head turned into a veritable whirlpool of dancing sparks and ominous black spots. The pain did not relent. He realized he had really done something to himself this time, probably moved the broken ends of the bones out of their semi-alignment.
Verjl cocked an eyebrow. This man was certainly a calm character. He had just saved the life of the second most powerful man in the Drojan party, and he acted like he'd done nothing. The Administrator liked that. The fellow wasn't a boot-licker or a favor-seeker. Verjl despised both. "You're not well," Verjl said, knowing it was a rather un- brilliant observation. No one was well here, but that wasn't exactly what he meant.
Qui-Gon did not bother denying it, at this point, there was no way he could. It was all he could do to battle his blurring vision and the rushing in his ears that threatened to drown out the other man's words. Suddenly Qui-Gon sank to his knees, the last of his strength draining away from him.
"Your hurt," Verjl's brows creased. "Guard!" he called. "Guard!"
Consciousness was fading fast. Qui-Gon fought, but he knew it was a battle he could not win. The last thing he remembered was regret that he failed Obi-Wan. They would find out now, they would kill him... *"I'm sorry the only promise I ever broke to you would have to be the last..."* he thought, but had no power left to even attempt sending a message. His large frame slumped to the ground, senseless.
**********
Obi-Wan stumbled for the hundredth time. He had stopped
berating himself for missing the rough, uneven patches of
earth a while ago. They were everywhere, too numerous for him
to avoid. Not surprising really, considering that the inmates
of the camp were busily engaged in digging the area up,
himself included. The work was arduous and the duty-officers
harsh. Duty five was a punishment detail.
*Snap!*
Obi-Wan scrambled to his feet, goaded on by the stinging touch of the guard's whip across his shoulders.
"Me'ell!" the guard shouted at him. "Me'ell!"
Obi-Wan didn't know exactly what that meant, but he didn't really care. It was probably something like "Faster," either that or "Stupid..."
Obi-Wan dumped his load of rocks and headed back. Sweat trickled down his body, unmercifully stinging the bloody welts he had accumulated across his back and shoulders, both from the beating the day before, and from the continued abuse of the guards. The thin, rough material of his torn, grey prison shirt clung to the lacerations, making them burn when he moved. The pain and his own swirling emotions made an already difficult situation worse, preventing him from affording full concentration to his surroundings. He stumbled again; painfully scraping his hands and knee, already raw from his many falls.
His lack of coordination and balance grated on him almost as much as the pain he was in. Had he lost so much when he lost his eyes?
A deep feeling of regret washed over Obi-Wan, but surprisingly, it was not his. His breath caught with a jolt as he realized that it was Qui-Gon's. He reached out, beyond himself, beyond his pain, searching for his Master, but could not find him.
That was not new, he had been unable to reach his Master since shortly after they were separated. At first, after he had gotten over his fear at being left alone and had calmed himself enough, Obi-Wan had been able to make contact with Qui-Gon. Their bond had been strengthened so much over the past few days that Obi-Wan had still been able to catch momentary glimpses of Qui-Gon's surroundings now and then.
When several guards took it upon themselves to beat Qui-Gon nearly senseless a few hours after his arrival at the wreck site, Obi-Wan not only saw, but felt it. The teenager had nearly gone berserk, getting himself a fair amount of abuse from the guards *he* was working under.
When Qui-Gon realized what was happening, he had cut their connection from his end, saving Obi-Wan from knowing what was happening with him, but also leaving them both truly alone. Obi-Wan had searched and floundered, but was unable to reestablish the connection while Qui-Gon was closed to him. He knew his Master had done it to protect him, but it still broke the Padawan's heart to be so totally cut off from his Mentor. At last Obi-Wan gave up and no longer let himself think about it.
But now... Obi-Wan felt apprehension grip the pit of his stomach. The regret had not been a communication per sé, but it had seemed aimed towards him, and it had felt frighteningly like good-bye.
Obi-Wan did not realize he had stopped dead in his tracks until a guard's vicious blow sent him sprawling once more.
"Stop daydreaming! Get back to work!" the guard screamed at him. "Me'ell!"
**********
Qui-Gon stirred. His throat was dry as dust and his body
burned with a raging fever brought on by the stress of his
injuries. Someone put something to his lips, which his foggy
brain somehow managed to recognize as a cup. Cool liquid
assuage his driving thirst, but he had no recollection of if
it had any flavor, only that it was cool and blessedly wet. He
could see nothing, and for a confused moment found himself
thinking that that wasn't right, it was Obi-Wan who... then he
realized that he couldn't see because his eyes weren't open.
For a moment he entertained the idea of leaving them that way,
but a cool cloth placed on his forehead made his eyes open,
almost automatically, to see who was there and where he was.
He found himself on a bed, a *real* bed, in a small, but
comfortable room.
A Nurse-droid hovered over him. The lines of the model showed that it was at least ten years old, but in excellent condition. The soft whir of the droid's internal motors created a comforting, steady hum that filled the silence of the small room. There was no one else around.
Qui-Gon tried to sit up but found that he could not. He was not restrained in anyway; his body simply refused to respond to his commands. He was confused. Something was missing... the pain. The pain from his arms was missing. He did not realize just how used to it he had become until now. But how? Why...? The Jedi may not have been in pain, but his head was still as cloudy as a night on Bespin.
"Relax," the droid hummed, it's voice set to a soothing pitch. "Movement will return in time. Your injuries were severe, I was required to give you quite a large dose of Anapathil."
Qui-Gon did not know what Anapathil was, but as long as it had helped as much as it felt like it had, he didn't care. Looking down he saw that his arms were firmly casted in thin, sturdy fiber-plex. The cast on his left arm spanned from his wrist to just below his shoulder, holding his elbow in a half-bent position. The one on his right arm encompassed only his forearm, leaving his elbow free to move. Probing the limbs more closely Qui-Gon realized that the broken bones had been set and cell-bonded to hasten healing.
"Wher-where," Qui-Gon tried to speak and found his lips curiously unresponsive. He supposed that that too was a side effect of whatever the droid had given him.
"You are a guest in the house of the gracious Administrator Verjl Owskar," the droid responded, even though he had not yet finished his question. "No more questions now," the droid continued, preempting any further inquiry on Qui-Gon's part. "You must rest."
Qui-Gon started to protest, but when the droid saw that her patient was not going to obey her, she clucked her mechanical tongue and pressed a hypodermic to the side of Qui-Gon's neck. Swirling blackness pulled Qui-Gon back under once more.
**********
Obi-Wan clutched his knees to his chest and shivered, whether
from actual chill or just loneliness, even he didn't really
know. He sat on the barracks floor wrapped in the shadows of
night. Even for sighted people it was dark now. Obi-Wan leaned
against the rough panel of the bed-frame behind him. He
supposed he could have gotten in the bed if he had tried. It
wasn't so crowded now that Qui-Gon was gone... Obi-Wan hugged
his knees a little tighter. He probably could have even
managed the climb up on his own if he had to, but he didn't
really care. He'd just as soon be here, where he and Qui-Gon
had spent so many nights together...
The barracks creaked and groaned in the gusty winds and from outside he could hear the faint warning hum of the electric fencing that cut the camp off from the outside world. But that was not all the young Jedi could hear. Misery, fear, hatred and despair saturated the air of the camp like the clouds of smog that billowed from the tall, wicked looking smokestacks at the far end of the compound. Obi-Wan could feel it around him, cold and dark. He could hear the swirling emotions like voices, shrieking, screaming, pleading...
The Padawan pressed his hands to his ears in an ineffectual attempt to block the voices out. Unfortunately it was not *those* ears that he was hearing with.
*"Where are you Master?"* Obi-Wan pleaded with the silence around him. He felt utterly cut off and alone. Deserted. *"I don't care what's happening, please Master, I don't want to be alone here!"*
There was no answer. Obi-Wan wondered with a shiver if that was because Qui-Gon could not answer him. With their bond severed this way, Obi-Wan wondered if he would even be able to tell if Qui-Gon died. Was that what he had felt earlier? *"Please Master, if you're out there, answer me! Answer me!"* Nothing. Only darkness and the screaming shriek of the despair that enshrouded the camp like a cerecloth.
Obi-Wan slumped further down, wrapping his arms around his chest. There was nothing he could do, no way he could help these people or change this place. No way he could help Qui- Gon or himself. He was so weary. He didn't want to hear anymore, he wanted quiet. Obi-Wan closed his eyes and put up shields around his mind, just as impassible as the electric fences outside. Qui-Gon was out of reach, had made himself out of reach, Obi-Wan thought with a twinge of bitterness. Anyway, there was no one else he cared to leave his mind open to, so he drew up his barriers and withdrew inside himself. He could still reach out and feel through the Force, he could hardly function if he did not, but nothing could reach *him* unless he opened up to let it.
With the voices at last stilled, he leaned his aching head on his knees and drifted off into a troubled, dreamless sleep.
*********
Qui-Gon lost track of how many times he phased in and out of
reality, or how long his semi-delirium lasted. Finally, he
awoke and found the cobwebs were gone from his brain.
When the Nurse droid checked on her patient, she found him sitting up and talking coherently. "Good," she approved. "You're on the mend." But she stopped him when he attempted to get out of bed. "I'm sorry, but I must insist that you remain immobile for the time being. Please comply with me willingly, I do not wish to have to sedate you."
The truth was, Qui-Gon may have been awake, but he felt far from strong, so he gave in to the droid's threat. For now. Settling back, he examined his surroundings. Apparently the Administrator was a powerful man, at least powerful enough to get him out of the camps, although how long that would last Qui-Gon did not know. Would he be sent back when he was well? He didn't intend to wait to find out, but there was nothing he could do about it right now, he was still too weak. Anyway, there was no way they could send him back in his current condition, it would be a pointless waste of their effort to heal him. He was going to have to bide his time as he regained his strength.
*"But what about Obi-Wan?"* his heart cried. What might be happening to his Padawan while he was stuck here? The Jedi Master closed his eyes, searching for Obi-Wan.
**********
Obi-Wan stood at attention with the other prisoners from his
barracks. He felt the restlessness and heard the shuffling and
swaying of the people around him during the longer than usual
roll call. This at least, was not a problem for him. If there
was one thing being a Jedi taught it was patience. Although
that was hardly his favorite subject, Obi-Wan could call on it
when he needed to. Being able to stand still for very long
times without fidgeting or showing visible impatience was an
essential skill considering how many long and boring
negotiations Jedi were doomed to attend during their lives. At
least here, Obi-Wan did not have to feign interest or keep
track of what was being said. Besides, the less attention he
drew to himself, the better he liked it.
This morning however, his calm, composed stance and civil attitude had the opposite effect. It actually attracted attention to him.
Obi-Wan could tell something was going on even before he felt the people moving towards him. Roll call was always long, but never this long. Everyone had been accounted for already, but the order to dismiss them to work had not yet been given.
The young Jedi kept his eyes downcast as he felt the people stop right in front of him. He guessed there were about five of them. A hand caught his arm and pulled him forward a little, out of the line. "What about this one, he seems a respectful, quiet sort," Obi-Wan heard a voice say. He wondered what exactly they were looking for. A hundred nasty explanations rushed into his head, but he forced them right back out again. Borrowing trouble did him no good.
The short Droisian man that had pulled Obi-Wan out of line examined the young man with brusque, but efficient thoroughness.
Obi-Wan forced himself to remain impassive as unseen hands poked, prodded and generally looked him over like an animal at market.
"He'll do," the short man said at last. "Not too much of a trouble-maker I hope?" he asked, glancing askance at the torn and stained back of Obi-Wan's prison tunic. "He doesn't really look like it."
"No, sir," the Duty Officer replied. "I'm sure whatever rebellious tendencies he has, you'll train out of him soon enough," the malicious grin was apparent in the Officer's voice and Obi-Wan repressed the urge to shudder. What was he getting into? He couldn't imagine anything worse than this place, but then, he didn't want to imagine too hard.
Obi-Wan found himself taken aside and lined up with a small group of other prisoners who had also been chosen for, for what? Obi-Wan did not know.
Heavy metal collars were placed around their necks, linking them together in a single-file line by the chains that connected the collars. The sharp snap of a whip started the line moving.
Obi-Wan shuffled his feet in an attempt to remain even with the paces of the prisoners in front and behind him and to avoid stumbling. Where were they going now? What waited for them there?
"Do you know where we're going?" he whispered to the person in front of him. There was no answer, so he guessed that the man had shaken his head no.
"No talking," the short man who now seemed to be in possession of them commanded sternly.
Obi-Wan started and drew his breath in sharply at the charge that zapped him from the collar around his neck. From the reaction of the others in the line, Obi-Wan realized that all the collars ran on the same frequency. If one of them misbehaved, all of them were punished. Obi-Wan kept his mouth shut after that.
TBC...
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