Lineage V
Chapter 1.
The dental droid's appendages resembled nothing so much as an advanced model interrogation probe, the sort kept on hand by ill-mannered and unscrupulous people for the sake of extracting information from recalcitrant guests. Obi Wan closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. His dark sense of humor had a way of conspiring with his agile imagination in the most improper way, and at the most awkward times; and the Force-opacity of the mechanical specialist did nothing to quiet his nerves. One could only focus on the present moment to a certain degree, when all was said and done – particularly when the present moment contained a soulless automaton proposing to callously thrust any number of sharp implements into the most convenient bodily orifice. He squirmed a little in place, Jedi training or no.
"You're ridiculous, Kenobi," senior healer BenTo Li chuckled, pressing a gnarled hand against his victim's – patient's – solar plexus and sending waves of soothing energy through the disturbed Force. "I've seen crechelings handle themselves better in the same situation. And here we have a full-blown Padawan just looking for a means of escape."
"I am open to negotiation," the young Jedi offered.
"Not on your life, you magniloquent scamp," BenTo snorted in reply. "I know you too well. DS42, what is the jury's decision?"
The droid, of course, was confounded by the metaphor. "Your pardon?" it burbled politely.
"Our friend is mercifully free from the ravages of intelligence,' Obi Wan gravely whispered to the healer, who shushed him with a severe frown.
"The diagnosis," BenTo explained, with a long-suffering sigh.
DS42 was back in its depths again. "The last molars are severely impacted, quite common in humanoid adolescents. Since they are vestigial functionality only, and are causing significant discomfort at this time, I recommend extracting all four. This is typical procedure for his species at between fifteen and twenty standard years. I will be fully prepared in a moment."
"Blast it," the Padawan grumbled. "Can't we just leave them be? The pain really isn't that bad. I only mentioned it because-"
"Yes, yes," Ben To interrupted. "Because you took a boot in the face during training this morning and were dragged kicking and screaming into the healers' ward by Master Drallig, whereupon the scan results for your thankfully un-broken jawbone revealed this little problem instead. I've been here the whole time, I don't require a debriefing. Carry on, DS."
"Will there be need of a chemical anesthetic, Master Lee?"
"No need – I'll stay right here. He needs his hand held the entire time anyway, I'm sure."
Obi Wan scowled at him as he spread thumb and forefinger of one hand along the young Jedi's face from temple to jaw, using the Force to selectively deaden the relevant nerve pathways. The droid hovered near, waiting for its signal, much as a carrion bird keeps vigil over some dying beast.
"I don't-"
"Hush boy, just shut your mouth and relax. Or," Ben To smirked, "I should have said, open it and relax."
"Rrrnnngh!" the Padawan peevishly retorted as DS42 got down to work.
"Remarkable progress, and within only months," Dooku drawled, "I must admit, his performance is most impressive. A natural talent, requiring only the proper nurturing to flourish."
Their boots crunched in the fine gravel of the outdoor meditation gardens' walkways, their journey laid out before them in strictly groomed parallels and perpendiculars, a disciplined geometry of intersecting pathways, as rigid and predestined as the Fate touted by the more dour-minded philosophers.
Jedi Master Yan Dooku correctly interpreted his companion's reticence as disapproval. "Surely, Qui Gon, you have no objection to your old master tutoring the boy in basic swordsmanship? Apprenticeship does not condemn a student to the unvarying routine of one tyranny."
The tall man to his right smiled sourly. His experience and memory did not vouch for the older man's words; and yet, his own principles bade him agree. "Of course not," he replied, evenly, stopping to peer at a small botanical specimen planted discreetly to one side of the footpath. He stooped and prodded at one of the thing's tiny, waving tentacles, then moved on, a faint smile teasing at the corners of his eyes.
"Good heavens." Dooku lifted a disdainful brow. "A sarlaac bush. I hope nobody has been fool enough to feed it proteins. They can be kept charmingly… stunted… if not indulged."
Qui Gon cast the silver-haired Jedi master a sidelong glance. "As can many vices, such as pride and combativeness."
Dooku placidly folded his hands behind his back and continued strolling down the neat path. "Ah. It is Makashi as such that you object to. I should have known. But, my friend, there is nothing to be feared in one's Padawan surpassing his master in some particular arena. It has happened before."
In another life, Qui Gon might have misinterpreted this remark, perhaps even mistakenly construing it as a subtle compliment. At just past fifty standard years, however, he was too wise to commit such a hermeneutical blunder; he did so much as break stride. "And I foresee that it may happen again. Perhaps Obi Wan will display precocious wisdom and voluntarily discontinue his pursuit of such dubious skills before he is Knighted."
Dooku's thin lips quirked into a fleeting smile and his grey eyes hardened momentarily. "If he did, then he would indeed have surpassed even his master's folly," he softly replied, parrying the attack and disarming his companion in an adder's strike of speed. "Tsk. You are a mentor of prodigies; what advice can I possibly offer you?"
And he was gone, with a short bow and an elegant flick of his cloak over one shoulder. Why he favored the cowled cloak over the traditional robe, Qui Gon could never fathom. It swept haughtily over the raked path as he continued on his way, not looking back.
"I don't mean to sound greedy, but are you going to finish that?" Reeft inquired.
Obi Wan glanced from his barely touched plate up to his friend's wrinkled face. The other Padawan grinned back, his Dressalian features folding into yet more rumpled lines.
"I don't mean to sound rude, but haven't you had enough as it is?"
Mournfully, the other boy shook his head. "No."
Smiling hurt, despite Ben To Li's admirable skills at muting the inevitable aftermath of the morning's training accident and his subsequent rough treatment at the dental droid's hands, so Obi Wan settled for shoving his dinner across the table and lifting his brows. "Far be it from me to stand between a friend and his besetting vice."
Reeft's grin only widened. "Especially when it permits you to indulge in your own: sanctimonious lecturing."
Obi Wan absently brushed the fingers against his 'saber hilt with one hand, while massaging his aching neck muscles with the other. He watched Reeft demolish his victuals, shoveling each mouthful in with evident relish, and a decided lack of ambassadorial-standard table manners.
"Dj'you solve that astro-navigation problem for Master Chopra yet?" he asked, chomping away.
His friend snorted. "The one about the differential hyper-lanes and the variable acceleration factor? I submitted my answer already."
Reeft almost choked on his envy.
Obi Wan waited until he had recovered. "After two hours of vain struggle to balance all the infernal equations, I wrote abandon ship at Sullust and use mind trick to obtain berth on more reliable vessel. Advanced mathematical calculation is for droids."
The Dressalian finished his meal and burped quietly into one hand, primarily because such displays annoyed his companion. "You will be hearing about that from Master Jinn," he warned.
Obi Wan leaned back in his chair, smugly, crossing his arms. "I don't think so… considering that we did exactly that only last month, during a mission. Master was quite adamant in his refusal to engage the engineering problems posed by our first transport."
That had Reeft chuckling heartily. "Well," he regretfully sighed, standing. "I at least must go apply myself to my education. I'll let you in on the real answer tomorrow morning, since I owe you for dinner."
Obi Wan shook his head. "No. You know I won't cheat."
The Dressalian shrugged back into his dark robe. "Or accept the assistance of your intellectual superiors, ha!... Good night."
"Good night, Reeft." And since he had no need of visiting the Archives for another session of quiet mathematical contemplation, Obi Wan turned his steps toward his own quarters, with a vaguely rumbling stomach and a vaguely aching head, but a clear and distinct intention to sprawl across his thin sleep mattress and remain in that blessed position until the next morning.
Qui Gon Jinn, it would seem, had other ideas.
"You are back earlier than expected," the tall man remarked, as his Padawan waved open the door to their quarters and grumpily dragged himself over the threshold.
"Yes, master," the boy mumbled, rubbing at the base of his skull.
The Jedi master cocked an eyebrow. "No studies to complete?"
"I've done all I can," his apprentice responded, looking longingly in the direction of his small bedroom.
"I would like a word with you, before you retire," Qui Gon said, gently, noting the weary droop of his Padawans' shoulders. "Why don't you sit?"
Obi Wan sank onto one of the common room's meditation cushions while the older man silently prepared tea, a long-standing evening ritual. "Is…. Is something wrong, master?"
There was really no need for such a question; their shared Force bond supplied ample testament to Qui Gon's slightly disturbed state of mind. "I was hoping you could answer that question for me."
The young Jedi accepted the proffered bowl of tea with a nod of silent thanks. He turned inward for a moment, consulting the Force, an instinct blended of personal knowledge and impersonal, universal insight. "You spoke with Master Dooku today, and that conversation has left you with misgivings," he said, after a moment.
The tall man quirked a rueful smile. "You grow more perceptive every day. Yes."
"About… me?"
Qui Gon's broad hands held the delicate bowl gently, their size in no way excluding grace. "Never about you. But perhaps about the wisdom of devoting yourself to the mastery of Makashi. You have a chosen saber style already: Ataru. While a well-rounded foundation is desirable, I think this foray into Makashi poses a distraction from other more salutary skills, even in swordsmanship."
Obi Wan's face was carefully composed, as it would be at a negotiating table. He felt his way forward carefully, as though drafting a peace treaty. "You have reservations about Form II. It is a traditionally recognized style, practiced by many great masters over the centuries."
"True." Qui Gon was gracious, but firm. "But it is a duelist's discipline. It is focused specifically upon the disabling and defeat of another saber-wielder. To what use, Obi Wan, do you foresee yourself putting this skill in your future as a peace-keeper?"
It was a fair question. "I don't know," the Padawan admitted, promptly.
His teacher studied him intently.
"But it seems right. As though I should study it anyhow. I can't see anything about the future, not in that way. I simply have a… a feeling."
They were silent for a long interval. Qui Gon's bowl was drained; Obi Wan's tea grew tepid, cooling to a bittersweet resignation. "Of course I shall desist immediately, if you think it best, master."
The older man exhaled. "In which case, there is no need. I will tell you when I think there is one, unless you come to the same conclusion first."
His apprentice nodded solemnly, raising a hand once again to massage at his neck and jaw.
"I thought you saw the healers after this morning's accident – are you still in discomfort?"
The Padawan's eyebrows came together in a thunderous line. "Yes, thanks to Master Li's fanaticism. When he discovered there wasn't any need of a bone-knitter, he set about finding some other convenient pretense under which to justify torture." He tossed back the remainder of his tepid tea, with a curt precision.
Qui Gon rose and collected the empty bowls, eyebrows raised. "Hm. And did the, ah, merciless inquisitors get anything out of you, my poor abused Padawan?"
The young Jedi made a small disgusted sound and looked up at his mentors' mildly amused face with a wounded expression. "Yes. They removed my wisdom teeth - and do not say it, master. I do not find it funny."
The tall man blinked innocently. "Did I say anything? I said nothing."
His apprentice glowered at him, hardly mollified.
"I am proud of your restraint," Qui Gon continued blithely. "Here you were cruelly violated and robbed, while your 'saber was within your reach, and yet you did not take off the droid's right arm. Perhaps you are not such an adept of Makashi as I feared."
Obi Wan's mouth thinned into a line dangerously close to a pout. "Next time I shall," he threatened.
"Go to bed," Qui Gon advised. "You've had a trying day for a youngling of your tender age." His grey eyes danced with mirth as he jerked his head in the direction of the smaller bedroom. "And the tooth gnome will not come until you are sound asleep."
He managed not to chuckle until Obi Wan had made his retreat in dignified silence.
It was doomed to be a restless night.
The droid loomed closer, its appendages bristling with unspeakably specialized tools, delicate instruments of suffering. It said nothing, but efficiently set to work as Ben To watched. Only the healer was not himself, but somebody different, cruel and smiling, coldly calculating as he… she… observed, making notes upon a datapad. Obi Wan reached for his saber, to lop off the evil thing's arm, but he had no saber; indeed, he could not move, paralysis seizing his limbs, a burning acid corroding his nerves from within, contorting the world into a blurred and melting nightmare, the droid's invasion of his person somehow penetrating deeper, from mouth into throat and sinuses, explosive pain erupting behind his eyeballs, making him scream…
"Why are you here?" the icy voice demanded, pitiless.
He didn't remember, he didn't know, all he knew was pain… he scrabbled wildly for the Force, grasping at its twisting fragments, thrashing his way free of the invisible restraints that bound him in place.
He woke up, sweat-drenched, upon the floor of his own room in the Jedi Temple. His hand reached sideways, to clutch at the edge of his low sleep-mattress, and he rolled upright into meditation posture with tiny whimper. He had not suffered a nightmare of that intensity in almost a year. He had thought such unwelcome visitations of the unifying Force were behind him, tamed into mere premonition by training and the passage of time.
When his breathing and pulse had settled into their wonted rhythm, he stood and shakily waved open the door, pausing at the entrance to the adjacent fresher as a last wave of nausea passed through him, and then padded into the common area with no particular purpose other than remaining awake. He was brought up short by the silhouette of Qui Gon Jinn, faintly outlined by the dim nighttime light filtering through the balcony doors.
"Master?"
The tall Jedi stirred, raising one hand from his knees and waving him forward. Qui Gon knelt, eyes closed, his face smoothed into unnatural calm as he breathed slowly and deliberately. His Force presence was a bleeding knot of worry and grief.
"Master?' The Padawan slid down to the floor beside him, nearly as perturbed by this sight as he had been by his own vision. Something slithered uneasily in his belly again.
"She is in terrible pain, Obi Wan."
His diaphragm lurched as understanding claimed him. Tahl. "I… I felt it, too, master."
Qui Gon finally opened his eyes, and turned to regard his student. In the darkness, only the silver threads in his hair gleamed visibly. He was a shadow crowned in pallid light. A strong hand reached out and grasped Obi Wan's knee. "You had a vision? Where is she?"
His throat tightened. Tahl. "I don't know, I couldn't tell –"
The Jedi master's grip tightened. "Focus, Padawan! You saw her. Where is she? We must find her." A flash of intense emotion – something edging on anger, on hot frustration – lit the Force with sudden fire.
Not Tahl. Not Tahl. The young Jedi shied away, stumbling back to his feet. "I don't know!" His chest heaved and he clamped down once again. "There's a droid, and someone else. Human. A woman. Someone evil."
He could just make out the shape of Qui Gon's fists clenching upon his knees. "That's not good enough," he growled, forcing his voice into a mockery of his habitual calm.
Obi Wan made a dash for the 'fresher and succumbed to the inevitable. When he exited a few minutes later, he nearly bumped into his teacher.
Qui Gon rested a hand lightly on either of the Padawans' shoulders. "Forgive me," he murmured. "I have no right to browbeat you. I have overstepped, and I apologize."
His apprentice blinked, drawing in a trembling breath. "I want to help, master. I .. that's all I saw. I don't know what to do."
"Neither do I." Defeat hung off the syllables, but Qui Gon drew in the Force's strength with his next inhalation. "Not yet. We must be patient."
"Yes, master." A rare misery hung between them, weighting the cool, cycled and purified air with rank emotion. Haltingly, not sure whether the gesture would be rebuffed, Obi Wan stepped forward and abruptly wrapped his arms about the tall man's chest, exerting a fierce pressure. To his surprise, the embrace was returned.
A moment passed, in which the word attachment whispered stern rebuke in both their minds. They stepped apart, girding themselves with Force-given patience, armoring themselves in its luminous and impersonal calm.
"We will meditate," Qui Gon decided, his voice steady and placid, betraying no unbecoming emotion, merely illuming the right path with the certainty of long experience. "Come."