Legacy II

Chapter 4

There is no unilateral agreement among the sages about the nature of dreams: some claim that they represent the unappeased desires of waking life; others disparage them as no more than accidental collages of memory and imagination; some few grant to them Unifying vision, making of them as it were a scrying glass in which the Force reveals its mysteries under the pomp and guise of archetypes, wide parabolas of allegory. Certainly it would take a lifetime's meticulous compilation of evidence to prove or disprove any one of these theories, even were it possible to single out one point of view among many as the exclusive truth.

But a Jedi has manifold other duties to occupy the allotted span of his life, even if he occasionally suffers an inexplicable recurrent dream.

There are unfamiliar voices in the front entry hall, the one with the glittering tree-shaped lamp and the holo-picture of a triple moonrise over shadow-striped orchard fields. The voices are deep male ones, and strange to him. And with the voices comes a dreadful wave of something – of fear, or sorrow, or other things he cannot understand, sweet and bitter and strong and painful. The wave rolls through him, through everything, changing the world to a twilight realm like the land in the holo-pic: all sharp contrasts, dark and light, good and bad, home and outside, known and unknown, present and future.

All the grownup voices he knows well, those he loves, are subtly edged, rasping and soft with difficult emotion. And he understands without being told that this warping of the world concerns him, that a cataclysmic event is poised upon his horizon, that this is end and beginning at once.

He runs.

There are stairs, and passages, and places he knows of, small places where he could hide. And there are windows and balconies, and beyond them there is a garden and a wall and fields, paths and roads and a wide green world parsed into tidy geometries, into tamed and groomed paradises where Light shines and heliotropes dance in its effulgence and the wind never ceases to blow high in the cerulean vault.

He runs without stopping, through all his favorite haunts and down the stone-paved path between the drooping trees, and the gate crashes open before him at the bidding of his frantic will, but…

He has been anticipated. The way to his private sanctuary is blocked, by a pair of tall, scuffed boots with many buckles. Behind these enormous feet and legs drapes a heavy curtain of cloth, dusty at the hem, but thick and tightly woven of soft cloth. He skids to halt, wondering, and looks up at the apparition even as it kneels down to bring its face level with his.

He has never seen a person with a striped face before, or with things like that sprouting from his head. It is a marvel to behold, and he is man enough of the world to guess at this stranger's port of origin. "Are you from a moon?" He has an uncle that lives on one of the moons. Maybe this is he.

"No," the foreigner chuckles. "Much further than that, I'm afraid. Where are you from?"

A fair question. The interloper is not frightening at this proximity. He points backward at the house's massive edifice, his native frame of reference.

"I see," the visitor responds, nodding his astonishing head very seriously. "Suppose you show me about? I am new to your home, and I would very much like an introduction." He rises, fluid as water spilling uphill, and holds out a truly enormous, muscular hand. The nails are short, the skin is golden-hued, and there are hard calluses on the finger pads. Tentatively, he extends his own much smaller, smoother hand, his comparatively tiny fingers brushing against the stranger's warm palm and then clasping tightly as the other's grip closes reassuringly about his own.

And the spark of fire that travels between them, within them, is like nothing he has ever felt before. He looks up, startled to discover that this complete Other is - among all the beings he has ever met, even she whom he loves above all others – the most like him.

They both belong to the Light.

"Come," the stranger says, and he obeys, walking on unsteady legs up the familiar path, giddy with the sudden expanding of his universe, with a joy verging on terror.

Rubbing the hard silt of sleep from his eyes, and the cobweb vestiges of recollection from his mind, Obi-Wan contemplatively turned one hand before his face, noting the calluses, the tiny scars left by an occasional mishap in the dojo, the knotting of tendons beneath faintly freckled skin. The room was awash in the palest radiance cast by a small nightlamp. He doused the tiny lantern with a flick of his wrist, and rolled off his hard sleeping palette with a stifled groan, adding a laconic and condemning remark upon the early hour.

And yet Qui-Gon had still managed to beat him to the punch, as it were. He beat a glum staccato upon the closed 'fresher door. "There's a pathetic life form out here, waiting his turn."

Perhaps he should consider requesting private quarters, after all.

"You would be here, drinking my tea, all the time anyhow," the older man answered his cantankerous thought. The door swished open to reveal an impeccably groomed and undeniably alert Qui-Gon, eyes twinkling merrily at his young companion's expense.

"I was about to seek release from my burdens elsewhere," the latter person grumbled. "Perhaps among the bushes on the balcony."

"Court disaster at your own peril, brat," the older man quipped, striding happily into the common room. "Oh – and get a move on, would you? We've been summoned to the Council chambers."

What? "At this hour?" Obi-Wan peered round the doorframe. "The assassination last night in the Legislative district?"

The Jedi master's brows rose in surprise. "How did you know?"

"I have my sources." He snapped the panel closed with smug satisfaction and considered his own reflection's bleary mien. A Council summons of such urgency meant immediate assignment. Releasing a long centering breath, he got down to business with practiced alacrity, girding himself inside and out for what might come – and wistfully relinquishing any attachment to the much-anticipated, and now doomed, furlough.

"I do hope this isn't going to be another clandestine mission," Obi-Wan remarked as they ascended the South tower, surrounded by the burnished splendor of four concave walls and a blank control panel responsive only to Force manipulation.

"We come to serve," Qui-Gon blandly replied, studiously avoiding both his companion's gaze and that of his slightly blurred reflection upon the lift's opposite wall.

He was answered with a derogatory snort. "I'm drawing the line this time. I will not consent to impersonate any planetary ruler's Royal Consort, ever again, from this day forth."

"I was under the impression that the Dowager found you less than satisfactorily consenting even at the time."

Obi-Wan's dull effigy shifted its contours, reflecting a wry shrug. "My former master always counseled me to know my own limits and to respect them."

"Ah, alas. If only every sentient being in the galaxy was likewise aware of your limits, Obi-Wan, we would be spared a great deal of trouble and the occasional scandal."

"Scoff all you like," his younger companion amiably retorted. "I've made a resolution and I'm holding fast to it. Next time there is a compromising alias to be assumed, it will fall upon your capable shoulders."

"Nonsense. I'm far too old. Such burdens are meant to be delegated to the younger generation. And that means you – unless you choose the path of greatest expedience and save yourself by taking on a padawan of your own."

It proved a sour note within their harmonious discord; Obi-Wan fell silent when he ought, by rights, to have fired back some outrageous impertinence. The tall man finally looked at him directly, curious gaze rebuffed by mental shields as impenetrable as the ablest Shadow's.

But now was not the time.

The tall man folded his hands into wide cloak sleeves as their carriage drew to a shuddering stop at the spire's pinnacle. "Shall we?"

Sunlight had not yet breached night's high ramparts, leaving the lofty Council chamber still swathed in deepest purple shadow. Soft lamps spilled tongues of amber and gold upon the floor's inlaid mandala, the winged sword and the lotus of contemplation surrounding the Force's perfect, empty circle, the omnipresent center of both universe and self. Only a handful of Councilors were present at this emergency session, Adi Gallia among them.

"Qui-Gon. Obi-Wan," the beautiful Tholothian addressed the newcomers, far less formally than her wont. "A matter has arisen which demands immediate redress."

"One of the Senators has been murdered," Obi-Wan succinctly supplied, sparking a frisson around the chamber's perimeter.

Adi's well-defined brows arched upward in surprise. "You are well informed. News has, thankfully, not yet reached the holonet. I saw to that myself."

Qui-Gon inclined his head respectfully. To thwart the media, through aggressive negotiations or whatever means needful, was a feat worthy of inclusion in the Order's annals – and they all knew it. His colleague received the mute praise graciously, her headress's ornamental tails bobbing as she returned the courtesy.

Mace Windu, solemn in his wide seat, cut to the chase. "It was a well planned assassination; had not Master Gallia been present at the function, the droid would have certainly escaped undetected. As it is.."

"We have its remains here in the Temple." Adi's fingers slipped momentarily to the hilt of her 'saber, her cerulean eyes sparkling with a rare fire. "Or at least most the scraps. The analysis droids are hard at work upon it as we speak… but at least one relevant fact has already come to light."

Qui-Gon exchanged a fleeting glance of curiosity with his comrade. What piece of tech trivia, however fascinating, could justify rousting both of them from their much-deserved rest and sending them out again on an urgent assignment?

"The cybernetics driver inside the probe unit is built on an ionite platform – one matching the minerals exported from Niffrendi. If you recall?"

Of course they did; the mission had been nothing if not memorable. A sparsely populated system in the far Rims, Niffrendi had been illegally trading valuable resources for tax-free profit. While the Trade Federation had predictably enough played middleman to the transaction, more worrisome yet was the discovery that all the blackmarket ionite had been funneled directly to a cutting edge armaments corporation.

"The assassination weapon hails from Baktoid Armories?"

Mace grunted. "So we must assume."

"And we are to investigate?" It was a natural inference - often enough a follow up mission was assigned to the same Jedi team that undertook the initial operation; such continuity was a distinct advantage.

"No," the Korun replied, surprising both men in the room's dimly lit center. He steepled his fingers. "There is another complication. The deceased Senator's homeworld has requested Jedi aid in keeping the peace during the new election. They will nominate and vote upon a replacement for Senator Mushibi within the next standard fiveday. Due to the current political climate, the local government anticipates trouble. It is hoped a Republic presence will soothe frayed nerves – the system is historically quite traditional-minded and supportive of the Order."

Obi-Wan considered this soberly. "And there is reason to suppose the assassination was ordered by someone from the same world?"

Mace's dark eyes glittered. "It is distinctly possible. It would not be the first time a vacancy has been forcibly created by those greedy for power and influence."

The young Knight nodded his agreement. Suspicion fell first and foremost upon those who might potentially assume the dead Senator's place on Coruscant – and the vast wealth of connections and privileges that entailed.

"You are best suited to such a task, of all those available on the rosters," Adi added, apologetically.

"We understand," Qui-Gon assured her. His record as a diplomat, especially in potentially volatile situations, was sterling – and his experience extensive. "To which system are we headed?"

Mace's penetrating gaze lighted on Obi-Wan momentarily before returning to the older man. "Stewardship of Terajon," he replied, quite evenly.