Recovery

Morning sunlight streamed through the open window; a soft breeze caused the thin white curtains to drift away from the painted wooden windowsill. As the wind wisped across Qui-Gon Jinn's face, her eyelids fluttered open.

The Jedi snapped them back shut, wincing against the bright line of light slashed across her dark skin. When a few moments had passed, she allowed her eyes to slowly reopen, then sat up to survey her surroundings.

A sparse bedroom surrounded her. The floor was the color of birch, the walls a calm sea-blue. Sitting empty in the far corner was a modestly padded chair; an end table adorned with a lamp was perched beside the single bed. Against the table leaned a modest cane which appeared to be carved from a single piece of wood—knots stuck out in several places, and the grain of the wood ran down its length.

Qui-Gon swung her legs over the edge of the bed and moved to rise. The moment her feet hit the floor, a strange numbness shot up through her spine, and she collapsed backwards onto the bed.

Huh. That seems wrong.

Vague impressions slowly creeped back into her mind—flashing sheets of color. A horned, demonic face rising in the darkness. A lance of scarlet hurtling toward her.

Ah.

For several seconds, the Jedi simply laid on her back and stared at the ceiling, watching the light from the window play across the speckled surface. Then, she ran a hand down the rough tunic she was wearing, pausing as her fingers brushed over the spot where the Zabrak's lightsaber had chewed through her gut. She could feel a bandage beneath the clothing, taped to her stomach to cover the injury.

So I definitely didn't dream that. Terrific.

Sitting back up, Qui-Gon reached her right hand toward the wooden cane. It zipped through the air, smacking into her palm. She gripped it tightly, leaning her weight into the wood as she attempted to stand once again. It wobbled, but held firm, more than matching her weight. There, she thought as she successfully rose to her feet. That's better.

Leaning into the cane with each step, Qui-Gon moved toward the bedroom door. Though its appearance suggested an old-fashioned construction made of natural materials, the door nevertheless slid aside automatically as Qui-Gon approached it. She turned immediately to her right upon exiting the bedroom—this was the way outside, if that breeze from the bedroom window was to be believed.

Sure enough, at the end of a short hallway there was another door. It slid aside of its own accord, bathing Qui-Gon in a soothingly warm sunlight and the unmistakable scent of the ocean.

Cautiously, she limped out onto a small porch. It, too, was made of wood—or a very convincing synthetic—and painted white. A pair of short steps led off the porch and onto a pristine beach. Not Coruscant, then. But if I'm not dead, and I'm not home, then where . . . ? Pausing momentarily to let the breeze waft over her, Qui-Gon then hobbled down onto the sandy surface.

She glanced left, then right, to find a beach stretching as far as she could see in both directions. Several small shacks sat in even intervals along it; behind this row of shacks was a massive building. It stood in contrast to the rustic nature of each hut—a sleek white surface, with silvery windows reflecting the morning sun back at the water.

Turning all the way around, Qui-Gon could see that her own shack—the one she had just exited, anyway—backed up to the white building. In fact, it appeared that the dwelling was connected to the looming construct. As if each beach shack served as an entrance to the mystery structure.

Qui-Gon turned again to face the water. Not the ocean, she thought, correcting her earlier assumption. Rather, it appeared she was facing into the center of an unusually large bay. Across the water, a city skyline was plainly visible. Most of its towering skyscrapers matched the slick white aesthetic of the mystery building that ran along the beach she stood on. They curved gently upward, seeming to sparkle in the morning light.

Well, what the hell am I doing on—

"Oh, you're awake!"

The voice—familiar though it was—startled her—in her scrutiny of her surroundings, she'd failed to sense anyone coming. Belatedly, the Jedi spun around—first, just her head glanced backward, her body taking time catching up as she used the cane to assist herself in turning.

Confirming her new companion's identity only deepened her confusion. "Qlik?"

A blue-skinned Duros in a maintenance jumpsuit stood in the doorway, reddish eyes wide with some emotion Qui-Gon couldn't really read. Before he could reply in the affirmative, she waved a hand, dismissing her own question, and continued: "Where am I?"

The Duros coughed a bit, looking almost like a toddler who'd been caught at something naughty—it was a frequent expression, one she'd mostly given up on trying to cajole him out of. "Ah," he said, his voice low as though they were in a hospital hallway, "you're on Alderaan."

"I gathered that," Qui-Gon said, thumbing back at the skyline behind her. "Where?"

"Medical facility on the Sanctuary Coast. They, ah, they have a wing that specializes in nerve reconstruction."

Her eyes grew wide, flitting down toward the cane in her hand. Slowly, she raised her head back up to look at Qlik. "How long have I been here?"

The Duros motioned toward the interior of the beach shack. "Come inside? We can sit down, talk about this."

"Qlik," Qui-Gon replied, stretching out the name as she said it. "How long?"

"You really should sit down . . ."

In frustration, Qui-Gon clenched her fist and curled the toes of her bare feet. As she did so, realization dawned in her eyes. "Qlik . . . I can't feel the sand between my toes."

Sadness flashed behind the Duros' bulbous eyes. "Yes, it's . . . there was quite a bit of damage."

"I'm not coming inside until you tell me how long I've been here." She hated the waver that entered her voice as she spoke, but couldn't suppress it before it was out in the open.

Qlik inclined his head slowly, though his eyes stayed on hers. "Six months."

Qui-Gon felt her knees grow weaker than they already were. "I . . . six months?"

The Duros moved forward, out of the doorway and toward the front of the porch. He paused at the top of the steps and stretched an open hand out toward Qui-Gon. "Please. Come inside. Lots to talk about."

The kitchen of Qui-Gon's shack was as modest as the rest of the structure. An old-fashioned cooking surface was set into decidedly out-of style-countertops. Unremarkable dining furniture sat in the center of the room, and as Qlik lowered himself into one of the kitchen chairs, he passed Qui-Gon a plain-looking mug of tea.

"Six months, huh?" she asked, attempting to steady her shaking hand as she took a sip of the steaming beverage. "How have I been here that long?"

Qlik leaned forward in his chair and placed his elbows on the kitchen table, the solid surface seeming to steady his nervous demeanor. "Well, you were in an induced coma for a while. There was the initial surgery. Some time in a bacta tank, a few more rounds of surgery. You were brought out of the coma pretty slowly just to be safe, then you had to learn to walk again—"

"Wait," Qui-Gon interrupted. "I don't remember doing that."

"Ah, yes, well, your memory of things might be a little fuzzy for a while," Qlik replied, scratching the back of his neck. "The doctors say, anyway. But don't worry," he added after an awkward pause, "it should all come back eventually."

"'Eventually,'" Qui-Gon echoed. She leaned back in her chair, being careful not to let her cane—which was leaning precariously against the kitchen table—fall to the floor. "That's. . . comforting."

Qui-Gon's Duros companion winced. "I'm sorry, I know it must be—"

"Not your fault, Qlik," she said, her voice a bit sterner than she'd intended. "Not as though much of it is probably worth remembering. And if you apologize all day I'm not going to get any answers to my questions."

Nodding gratefully, the Duros swallowed and said, "Okay, how about this: tell me the last thing you do remember?"

"I got stabbed in the gut with a lightsaber," Qui-Gon said flatly. "Must've passed out right there in the wrecked ship, because the next thing I know I'm waking up here. Well . . . no. Wait, maybe. There is one thing, but it seemed more like a dream than anything else. I talked with Obi-Wan."

Qlik nodded, something in his amphibian face seeming to perk up. "That was real! Obi-Wan—erm, Master Kenobi sends his regards, by the way. Doctors wanted a familiar face here when you woke up; it was supposed to be him. You got me instead."

Halfway through a sip of tea, Qui-Gon sputtered a slight laugh. "Well, Qlik, you're a hell of a consolation prize. I suppose Obi-Wan—" she froze, then set the mug of tea down on the table while staring at the Duros across from her. "Hang on. Did you say Master Kenobi?"

"Ah, right. You wouldn't have heard." Qlik's head bobbed up and down in a nod. "Obi-Wan has taken a student. The pilot from Had Abbadon, actually. Skywalker?"

A satisfied smile spread its way across Qui-Gon's mouth. At least I didn't get carved up for nothing. "Good."

"They're gone quite a bit. Always a treat when they come back to the Temple," he continued, memories of the pilot overriding his usual, nerve-induced brevity. "Skywalker usually stops by the hangar, helps work on the ships. The team loves him. Wish he'd been a technician instead of a knight, but what can you do?" With a shrug, the Duros collapsed backwards in his chair, then sat up straight just a moment later. "That reminds me! Something you should see."

Qlik rose to his feet and hastily made his way toward the rear of the kitchen, with Qui-Gon following suit—though she was unable to match the Duros' speed, leaning heavily into her cane as she limped along behind him. The blue-skinned alien rubbed his hands together as he walked, his eyes glinting underneath the soft lights overhead; Qui-Gon, careful not to let him see, smiled. It was always adorable when Qlik had some new gadget or piece of technology to show off; she didn't know if he realized how much his usual hesitance dissipated with the excitement.

The duo moved out of the kitchen and into a narrow hallway, which terminated in a slate-grey surface. A keypad was set into the wall on the right side.

"They don't normally let patients back here," Qlik said. "But I won't tell if you won't."

"What is it?" Qui-Gon asked, putting most of her weight onto the cane as she came to a stop.

"Supposed to be a storage room," replied the Duros. "Hospital was kind enough to let me use it as a garage."

"A what now?"

With a swoosh, the slate-grey surface slid aside, revealing a brightly lit chamber with pristine white walls and floors of polished duracrete. The cool lighting brilliantly illuminated the centerpiece of the room: a sleek starship. The two-seater racing vessel was adorned in a glossy black paint, with curves and slopes that seemed all too familiar.

"Oh my god. Is that what I think it is?" Qui-Gon said, her voice rising in excitement as she spoke. She moved as quickly as she could over to the racing ship and placed a hand against its hull.

Qlik nodded enthusiastically, head twitching up and down in rapid succession. "One XT-1580 ultralight performance vehicle, courtesy of—"

"Bail," Qui-Gon whispered, noticing the handwritten flimsiplast note tucked against the ship's cockpit glass. She reached forward, plucked it free, and gripped it tightly.

"Senator Organa brought the ship over himself. Said the owner wanted you to have it. A thank-you gift for helping Typhoon Division. For saving Had Abbadon."

"'Senator,' huh? Figures as soon as I get myself an in with a Chancellor, the guy goes and gets himself demoted," Qui-Gon mumbled, shooting a smirk back at Qlik. "We can talk politics later, though. Skywalker came here to fix this up?"

Qlik shook his head. "No. I did. It was in rough shape. Patched up the hull, replaced some inner workings, swapped that paint job for something a bit more your style."

"It's been equipped properly for a Jedi Knight, I hope," she said, grinning expectantly. "All those fancy toys you love to hand out—"

"Well, um," Qlik began, wringing his hands against each other as he spoke. The excitement that had been building behind his eyes started to drain, as though he were a balloon she'd punctured. "Actually, we do need to talk about that. The Temple medics—"

"The what?" Qui-Gon interrupted, a wave of sudden horror passing through her. "Qlik, you brought Jedi Temple medics here to see me?"

"Of course not!" the Duros hastily clarified, raising his hands as if to ward off an attack. "But they didn't have to see you to know what's going on. Master Kenobi's report—"

"Son of a bitch," hissed Qui-Gon.

Qlik stared for a moment, then shook his head. When he spoke again, he did not continue the thought Qui-Gon had interrupted. "This, ah, couldn't have been kept a secret for long." At "this," he gestured up and down the whole of her form, as if to indicate the state she was in.

"I had to try. They've grounded people for less."

"The medics don't 'ground' us, Qui-Gon. They . . . offer guidance. Make suggestions."

She gripped the head of her cane tighter, feeling it start to rock back and forth from the pressure bearing down on it. "And what do they 'suggest'?"

As he reached up to scratch the back of his neck, a grimace crossed Qlik's face. "You know, it was supposed to be Master Kenobi delivering this news. I'm not exactly good at—"

"Qlik. Tell me."

The Duros released a heavy sigh, then leaned against a tool cabinet that sat next to the parked raceship, staring at one of its nacelles. "The medics recommend that you step down from your assignment as a Jedi Knight. Take a . . . less intensive role. A scholar, or perhaps an archivist."

Qui-Gon simply scoffed.

An uncomfortably long silence hung in the makeshift garage before Qlik finally spoke. "It's not so bad," he offered. "Being at the Temple full-time, I mean. And you have experience in the suggested area—"

"There's a war on, Qlik." Or at least I assume there is, she thought, but correcting herself wouldn't fit the impression she was trying to convey. "The galaxy needs the Jedi Knights."

"The medics don't believe you're in any state to fight—"

A clatter resounding off the far wall caused Qlik to jump back into an upright position. Qui-Gon now stood tall, free of the assistance provided by her cane—she had thrown it into the corner of the storage room; its impact against a pile of boxes had been the source of the startling noise.

"Obi-Wan fought that Sith with multiple broken ribs," Qui-Gon said indignantly. "He called on the Force to give him strength when he needed it." She reached deep within herself, exhaled, and then stretched her arms wide to display her freestanding stability. "Look at me. I can do the same."

It didn't hurt. Not really. Sure, it's a bit taxing, but I'll get used to it.

Qlik took a step toward Qui-Gon, but she stretched out a hand toward him as if to say stop. The Duros froze in place as he spoke. "He told me what happened. Also told me that when he got back to his cabin after you all left Had Abbadon, he slept for nearly twenty hours. Doing that"—he pointed toward Qui-Gon as she stood without her cane—"is too tiring."

He must really be concerned about me, she thought, making a speech like that. "He slept that long because of all he'd been through." Her voice, she noticed with chagrin, was beginning to waver, as were her knees. Easy, now . . . "He'd spent the past few days fighting for his life in a cave network. You'd be tired too."

"I spoke with other Knights who've used the technique in battle. They all said the same thing: it's exhausting." Qlik gingerly took another step toward her. "No way to live."

Her knees weak to the point of failure, Qui-Gon finally collapsed forward toward the polished duracrete floor of the makeshift garage, only to be caught by the Duros on the way down. She glanced up at him, and he down at her. Neither Jedi said a word—Qui-Gon merely nodded wearily, and her Duros companion allowed her to swing an arm around his shoulder. They stood together, one supporting the other.

"So the medics want to ground me," Qui-Gon said between deep breaths of exhaustion as she hung her weight on Qlik. "What do you think?" Turning her eyes to meet his, she injected as stern a note as she could while also hanging onto him for support. "I swear, Qlik, if I'm stuck at the Temple archiving for the rest of my days, you won't get a moment's peace."

After a few moments of consideration, an extremely unfamiliar expression crossed the Duros' face for a brief moment. It looked almost like . . . mischief?

"Well," he began slowly, "if you disagree with their assessment, I've. . . got some ideas."

Slowly, Qui-Gon felt some of the old smirk settle over her face. "I knew I was going to like you as our quartermaster." Stretching out her hand, she felt a warm smack as the wood hit her palm. "Well, I suppose I'm at your disposal. Show me."

Air wooshed past Qui-Gon's face as Qlik whipped away the tarp covering one of the workbenches in his makeshift garage. An array of scrap parts and machine components covered the surface of the workbench, most of which she didn't recognize. In the corner of the work surface, she could just make out a small scrap of flimsiplast—the handwritten note she'd left for Qlik before leaving Coruscant to rescue Obi-Wan. He kept it, she thought to herself. Getting sentimental in his old age.

"This," the Duros began, drawing Qui-Gon's attention up to him as he gestured in a sweeping motion across the workbench's surface, "is my latest project. A custom job, just for you." He leaned against the workbench, faced Qui-Gon's seated form, and pointed toward the walking stick she held loosely in her hand. "A fine piece of craftsmanship, isn't it?"

Qui-Gon raised an eyebrow. His presentations always brought with them a certain level of . . . theatricality. How successful it was depended largely on the audience's mood. "It's okay, I guess," she offered, lifting the wooden cane up to inspect it.

"Exactly," Qlik said with a smile. "It's okay. Nicely carved, yes. Perfectly functional, yes. But exciting? Fit for a Jedi like you, who flies one of those"—he gestured towards the raceship in the center of the garage—"and dresses like that?"

At this the Duros pointed to a mannequin, on which sat Qui-Gon's favorite outfit: a lengthy gray coat with a tall collar sat wrapped around a leather vest and bandolier. The mannequin's head was partially concealed by a hood, and gray pants and boots adorned the lower half of it. The circular burn mark through the center of the clothing was evidence enough that Qlik had not gotten around to patching up Qui-Gon's clothes, though his long, spindly digits weren't exactly suited to sewing.

When Qui-Gon did not answer the quartermaster's question, he continued anyway. "Of course not! We can do better than that. Now, it's not finished yet, so don't be too harsh." He reached down into the workbench and extracted a length of polished metal. At one end, an elegantly curved piece of glossy black synthetic extended out at a ninety-degree angle.

"A cane?" was all Qui-Gon could manage.

"Not just any cane," Qlik replied excitedly. He ran his blue fingertips along the length of the device. "It's made from the electrostave Skywalker recovered before you left Had Abbadon. He was kind enough to donate it to the Temple armory."

"Forgive me, Qlik, but I don't think I ever saw the thing in action. I was too busy dying on the floor."

"It blocks lightsabers," Qlik said with a knowing smile, his eyes eager for her to assimilate this piece of information.

At the news, Qui-Gon matched his expression. "Okay, now we're talking."

"A perfect mobility assistance device. Should keep the medics happy. Should also allow you to defend yourself if you're ever attacked."

Qui-Gon nodded slowly, a smile still painted on her face. "Speaking of lightsabers . . . where's mine?"

Qlik inhaled sharply and slowly set the metal cane down on the workbench. "It's here, but . . . well, I'm sorry, really. The hospital has a campus-wide weapons ban. I, ah, had to take it apart to get it in here. Haven't had a chance to put it back together."

Qui-Gon shrugged, brushing off the fact that someone else had disassembled her weapon—better here in pieces than back at the Temple and locked away. "Go get it, would you? I'll put it together myself."

"I can't."

Qui-Gon's face sank. "What do you mean you can't?"

Qlik moved toward Qui-Gon, sitting down beside her and leaning in to speak at a low whisper. "The point of the cane is that you don't need a lightsaber anymore. The Temple medical team told me not to give the saber back to you. It was a condition of my keeping it from just going into the armory."

Heat rose within Qui-Gon; she took a deep breath and fought to keep the anger down. "They what? How am I supposed to fight anyone with that?" she asked, jabbing at the cane on the workbench. "Whacking someone over the head isn't exactly a catch-all solution."

"You're not," Qlik sighed, looking dejected. "Sort of the point."

"Listen to me," Qui-Gon said, intensity burning behind her eyes. "Qlik, I like you. Don't take this personally. But I am a Jedi Knight. My destiny is not to study within the Temple walls. It is to get out there and fight for the galaxy. I am going to get well enough to do that, and when I do I'll need a weapon. And if the Temple is too steeped in well-meaning blindness to see that—"

Qlik leaned back, rubbing his forehead. "I know. But I can't disobey the medical team's instructions. I can't just give you your lightsaber."

"Well then, Qlik, why the hell did you bother taking it apart and smuggling it in if you weren't going to give it—"

Belatedly, she felt an a-ha wash over her. Looked down at the metal cane resting on the workbench.

When she looked back up at Qlik, his expression had slipped back to its default of inexplicable guilt. Tentatively, she reached out with her senses to touch his feelings. Worry and sadness all the way down.

You know, Jinn, you're not nearly so smart as you like to think you are.

"You know," she said to the Duros, lifting her hands in surrender, "you caught me on a bad day. I'm sorry. For everything." As she said this, she did her best to imbue her presence with mingled gratitude and regret, hoping her companion would sense them.

"Not at all," he said, looking down at the area beneath his feet. "Been through a lot." Then, quickly, he lifted his head again, meeting her eyes. "Just glad you're here."

Gently, she smiled. "And I'm glad you're here. Sincerely."

Before the patching up could awkwardly dissipate, she laid the wooden cane on the workbench and briskly rubbed her hands together. "Now then. I believe you were trying to finish your presentation to me."

"Ah. I—yes." Hesitantly, Qlik leaned closer. "As I said—the hospital forbids weapons. The Temple forbids you have a lightsaber in your possession. Ordinarily, the solution would seem unworkable."

"Ordinarily," Qui-Gon echoed, adding the slightest bit more emphasis to the adverb.

Nodding, his nervousness giving the motion vigor, Qlik leaned closer still, the movement almost conspiratorial. "However, nothing has been said about giving you the use of any . . . prototypes."

"Like this," she said, picking up the metal cane and rapping it against the table. Doing so, she felt the smile she'd pasted on for the sake of calming the quartermaster starting to slide into something far more real.

"Like that. Only, before I was, erm, interrupted, I was going to explain that your new cane is, well, not precisely finished."

"I see." And indeed she thought she could see, in more ways than one.

"Certain components need to be added. Tested. Only a person familiar with them should handle the prototype once it's finished. For safety." After a second, he looked around the room, and said in a harsh whisper, "If you get my meaning."

Unbidden, a chuckle swept over her and through her throat.

In the moment, it was perhaps the nicest thing she'd ever felt.

"I think I do, Qlik," she said, placing a hand on the metal rod. "One condition: I get to watch, right?"

Faint and jittery though it was, a smile of his own rose on the Duros' face. "Always like an audience. Keeps things lively." Turning, he headed for the door on the far side of the room. "I'll get my tools."

"Thank you," Qui-Gon said, relief washing over her.

It wasn't ideal. But it was a start.

"And hey," she said, "while you're up, see if this place has room service or something. I believe I owe you a drink."