Lineage VII
Chapter 6
"Need a light?"
Obi-Wan affably accepted the proffered heat-coil, holding it to the extremity of the thin cheroot until the crushed leaves within smoldered into a snaking line of blue smoke.
"Ah, he's in fine form tonight," one of the older youths grumbled, lounging insouciantly against a wall support as he jerked a thumb in the direction of the small figure haranguing the gathered populace. "Ewane gave better speeches, even if he was a vile compromiser and enemy of the people."
"Ewane," another snorted, exhaling a thick stream of vapor from both nostrils and mouth. "Popped off and left us with this idjit in his place." He tool a long drag on his own smokestick while his companions sniggered in approval.
"I thought the new leader was democratically elected," Obi-Wan put in mildly, cautiously tapping ash from his own slowly smoldering stick onto the pavement.
"Ha! You from some other planet?" one of the others snorted. A ripple of suspicion textured the Force.
He shrugged, nodding his head westward, in the direction of the nearest neighboring settlement, Corollon.
The first speaker grinned sardonically and blew smoke in a long stream. "Huh. Good as," he sneered. "Didn't you look at the election forms? The People's party only ran one candidate."
The young Jedi leaned back against the low retaining wall as the speech rambled on and on, sound amplifiers casting the impassioned syllables against the stone amphitheatre's shores like a raging sea. "Too busy working to worry about stuff like that, " he muttered.
The boy on his right, a scrawny dark-haired fellow with shifty eyes, jostled his elbow. "Hey! You gonna use that or just let it burn out?"
Obi-Wan pursed his lips and silently uttered a curse, while his prying interlocutor regarded him with narrowed eyes. He raised the inhalant to his mouth and sucked in a fair quantity of the sweet-sickly smoke, lungs spasming slightly despite his well-honed control. Sensing the sharp expectation of the others, and the power hierarchy among them, he quashed his pricking conscience and made sure to exhale the resulting cloud into the smaller youth's prurient face, much to the amusement of his would-be peers.
"Kriff off, Yokk," the eldest commanded, and the skinny minion sidled away to hunch sullenly against an adjacent wall. Then, turning back to the Padawan, "You still in trade school?"
Obi-Wan suppressed a cough and cleared his throat. The smokestick had a peculiar calming effect on the nerves…. He hoped it did not cloud the judgment as well. "Apprenticed," he replied, succinctly.
The leader of the rebellious crew made a face. "That's old school. Here, in Apsolon Prime, everybody does the Worker's Training Guild. Better enroll in class tomorrow if you're staying on. Everybody under eighteen standard's gotta go – no exceptions."
"To the hells with that," the newcomer responded, flicking his smokestick's butt into the gutter. "I'm here to make money, not go to school."
His companion leaned in close. "Listen – what's your name again?"
"Wan."
"Don't be a pula, Wan. Truancy officer catches you outta the Guild Training and he's gonna send you straight to the Remediation Center. And then you are royally kriffed. So wise up. I'll see you round tomorrow at the Guild."
"I don't think so." He would be of no use to Qui-Gon while incarcerated in some imbecilic conditioning camp for the citizenry. He had read enough and seen enough with his own eyes to know what sort of place the "Training Guild" must be. "I look old enough."
That earned him a round of dismissive laughter. The speaker thrust out a hand and patted his cheek, smirking. "Don't think so, baby-face." The others snickering was fanned to renewed vibrancy by this remark, provoking one or two acidic looks from others in the nearby crowd.
"I'll ask my….supervisor." Something told him that the term master might not be prudent to employ in this company.
But further conversation was forestalled by another riotous outbreak of applause and hooting as the speaker on the far platform brought this extended rant to a close. The Workers then launched into an off-key and rather tedious anthem, one sung in loud and graceless voices by the swelling crowd, before the assembly slowly crumbled into a sluggish chaos, petering away into the surrounding streets and alleys. The disgruntled youths slunk away at the same time, disappearing into the milling crowd until Obi-Wan was left virtually alone, lingering under the growing shadow of the back wall until he spotted Qui-Gon's tall form striding across the plaza toward him.
The Jedi master's brows twitched upward when his apprentice fell into step beside him, blending into the shadows beneath a decaying warehouse. "Did you learn anything useful?"
"How to smoke a deathstick?"
Qui-Gon's steady pace might have faltered infinitesimally.
"It was ordinary bacci, master," Obi-Wan reassured him, running fingers along the hilt of his saber, concealed beneath the frayed duster's folds. "Apparently the new political figurehead was elected only in name – the people's party ran him as sole candidate. And the new regime in the capitol city here has mandated Guild Training for all persons who are legally minors. The others tried to bully me into attending, with threats of a Remediation Center."
"Hm." The tall man digested this news as they crossed a badly lit square and found another obscure alleyway between two residential blocs. "The Workers have put their faith in a small group called the New Absolutes," he murmured. "The man you heard speak tonight was Eline, an accomplished rhetorician but not, I think, the real source of trouble."
"New Absolutes?" Obi-Wan repeated, incredulously. "And what is their aim?"
A quiet chuckle answered him. "Were you not paying heed to our noble leader's rhetorical tirade, Padawan? I hope I need not rebuke you for a wandering attention."
The younger man snorted. "I was otherwise occupied."
"Smoking and loitering. The Council report will include all the details," Qui-Gon promised. "The New Order seems to promise peace and prosperity for all… and the utter eradication of both the old ways and any who adhere to them."
A bell tolled out heavy warning around them; shadow deepened into the absolute black of night. There were no street lamps in this district.
"We should make haste," the Jedi master decided. "That is the curfew bell. I am told that a Visitors' Hostelry is just down this next street."
They jogged swiftly to the grimly barricaded front entrance of the so-called boarding house, the ominous notes of the bell resounding in their very bones.
"Fill out the registration forms on these 'pads," the emotionless droid instructed them. "They will be collected by a clerk in one standard hour. You are limited to one room, due to your failure to obtain clearance beforehand. Your allotted space is 53-B. Please follow the signs."
The Jedi glanced at each other quizzically as their robotic host thrust two datapads into their hands and indicated a blank grey-walled hallway leading to a set of stairs. They did not fail to notice the blast-shields recessed in the walls, ready to seal off the stairwell from the lobby, nor the echoing sterility of the corridors, nor the heavy, scuffed material lining both doors and the flooring underfoot.
"Master!" Obi-Wan exclaimed between gritted teeth. "This is a prison."
"Formerly," Qui-Gon observed. "Re-purposed as a..ah… hotel for guests from outside the city." He halted at the door assigned to them and applied the identichip to its scanner-plate. The heavy panel slid open to reveal a pale cell outfitted with two cots and a stripped down all-species 'fresher unit in one corner.
Obi-Wan balked upon the threshold.
"We do have the key," the Jedi master reminded him, flourishing the small chit in one hand. "And," he added, leaning down with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, "There are no insects to disturb your repose here, Padawan."
His apprentice deigned make no reply, but merely strode into the bare chamber and flopped onto the nearest cot, thrusting hands behind his head and crossing his ankles. The door slid shut behind them.
"Here," Qui-Gon said, dropping both data-pads upon his student's belly. "Make yourself useful and fill out the paperwork."
The droid clerk showed up dutifully one hour later to collect the registration forms filled out in highly imaginative detail by Obi-Wan.
"How long do you suppose that false information will afford us here?" the Padawan wanted to know.
"Long enough," Qui-Gon decided. "We shall make best use of our time. Tomorrow I will make inquiries in the government complex. Master Gallia was sent here to ensure a peaceful transition during the elections. Her presence would have been noticed by more than a few observers, even if effort has been made to suppress all knowledge of Republic emissaries having arrived."
Obi-Wan nodded. "We should make an attempt to locate their Republic transport, as well. The Absolutes cannot have scrapped or hidden an entire shuttle so easily. It must still be impounded somewhere nearby. I can look into that that while you investigate at the administrative center."
The tall man folded his arms thoughtfully. "No… I think you should attend this school the youths mentioned. I am curious what the Workers Training Guild teaches its enrollees, and you may be able to obtain some more information from the other students. The young are often the most discontent, and the most talkative."
The young Jedi's obvious dissatisfaction with this plan was swiftly smoothed over by a resigned sigh. "Yes, master. Though I do not see what use it will be to our mission."
Qui-Gon's mouth tweaked upward at one corner. "As I said: discontent, and brashly vocal about it – you will blend in seamlessly with the other delinquents."
"Yes, master." The Padawan refrained from further comment, shifting testily on the edge of his cot. Then, "Do you suppose there is any chance of getting a proper meal here? I have a bad feeling about the room service."
Qui-Gon only grimaced in reply. They ended making do with a ration pellet apiece, and some water from the tap. After a lengthy shared meditation to center themselves in the Force's guiding light, they lay down to sleep fully clothed, with sabers at the ready, as was their custom on a mission. Since the hostelry illuminators seemed to be on an automatic timer, they had little choice but to retire when the cramped and windowless cell was abruptly plunged into inky blackness.
"Well, this is nice," Obi-Wan remarked dryly, his cot creaking as he stretched out upon its lumpy mattress. "I'm beginning to rethink my dedication to democracy."
His mentor grunted softly in the darkness. "I fear Apsolon has strayed far from that path, in any case. The New Absolutes may rule in the name of the people, but that does not make them just and rightful representatives."
"I don't know, master. The people seemed enthusiastic enough when that demagogue was addressing them earlier."
The Jedi master exhaled slowly. "All the same, Obi-Wan. Popular acclaim does not always support freedom – but that does not invalidate the principle."
A short silence, in which they both shifted restlessly on the uncomfortable bunks.
"You feel responsible for the present state of affairs," the Padawan boldly ventured, after a brief hesitation.
Qui-Gon's intake of breath was audible; and the sudden tightening of mental shields was sufficient warning to his apprentice to venture no further. But he did not rebuff the accusation. "Perhaps," he admitted.
"It is easy to criticize our own lack of omniscience in hindsight," Obi-Wan offered, quietly.
The Jedi master's gentle smile fluttered ruefully in the Force. "Did a wise man say so? I must be more mindful."
"You must keep your focus in the present moment," the younger man agreed, forcing lightness into his tone.
"Indeed. We both have much to accomplish in a short span of time. My instincts tell me that the sooner we locate Master Gallia and Padwan Tachi, the better for all concerned."
Obi-Wan silently concurred, though he needed no subtle prompting of intuition to supply the sentiment: their dour surroundings, the memorial pillars outside the Absolute museum, and the fanatic cheers of the crowd at the People's Gathering were eloquent testimony to this planet's precarious hold on sanity. They were treading on the unstable summit of an active volcano.
"Yes, master," he meekly replied, and turned over to seek brief respite in sleep.
He did eventually find it, but not before his mind's eye wandered over the haunting images of his previous vision: white petals crushed underfoot and stained with crimson droplets, the denuded branches starkly beautiful, their twisted limbs tormented but unbroken, an etching of pained fortitude against a pitiless silver light. The image disturbed him greatly, and he banished it with a deep breath and not a small act of will, embracing instead the temporary oblivion of slumber.